UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Received 

^  '  i 

Accession  No. 10 3 ^  3  0. 


..... 


\ 


LE  MARQUIS  DE  LEUVILLE, 


PGJRS 

AND 

AELIA. 

Illustrated. 


FROM 


"ENTRE-NOUS." 


TENTH    THOUSAND. 


(PUBLISHED  BY  CHAPMAN  &  HALL,  LONDON.) 
AMERICAN     NEWS     COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


Copyright    1884. 


TO  FLORENCE. 

Like  the  cushat  to  his  nest, 
Like  the  bee  to  honey-cell, 

And  the  fisherman  across  the  sands  into  the  bonnie  lee, 
1  have  made  you  of  my  best 

Just  a  rosary  to  tell, 
If  you  icill  raise  my  rustic  beads  to  such  a  dignity. 

Because  some  came  from  the  air, 
And  some  from  lips  of  flowers, 

And  many  from  the  bosom  of  the  wild  majestic  sea, 
And  more  came  fleet  and  fair, 

From  a  Summer  that  was  ours, 
And  I  bring  them,  as  in  olden  time,  to  you  on  bended  knee. 

Out  of  sorrow  some  have  come, 

From  the  griefs  of  human  lives ; 
And  some  from  aching  hours   they  tried  in  vain   to  render 

sweet, — 
Take  these  as  tears, —  and  some 

Like  a  swirl  of  Autumn  leaves, 

To   write  your    beauty   down    the  grove    beneath  your    little 
feet. 


/86«f 


Books  not  in  a  language 
entirely  your  own  in  youth 
should  have  some  prefatory 
account  of  themselves. 

Vossius. 

I  HAD  therefore  better  make  some  apologies  for  my 
"  French-English." 

Poetry  is  an  inconvenient  thing.  Yet  poets  will  dream 
in  spite  of  stern  reality  perpetually  staring  them  in  the 
face  ;  and  painters  still  rise  in  the  morn  from  their 
rich  visions  of  the  night,  without  a  beam  of  hope  for 
daily  bread. 

"  Mais  Us  sont  a  nous  ces  beaux  palais  /"  said  either 
Alfred  de  Vigny,  or  Sarasin  or  Montreuil — or  some  of 
those  pelits-maltres  of  the  Port  Royal  or  otherwhere. 
(The  truth  is,  I  am  possessed  by  a  nomad  Asmodeus, 
who  is  continually  transgressing  my  geography  and  pro- 
truding his  two  sticks  where  I  get  a  little  confused  in 
following  him.) 

"//s  sont  a  no  us  ces  bemx  pnlais!!"  .  .  .  How  well  it 
rings  !  But  these  war-cries,  born  of  a  passant  feeling  that 


ri  ENTRE-NOUS. 

God  creates  for  the  poet  and  the  poet  for  man,  are  most 
transient.  The  true  poet's  calling  is  a  hard  crusade.  He 
sheds  the  tears  that  others  dream  of  : — out  of  his  sorrow 
comes  his  song,  and  even  with  this  urgent  inward 
drouth  he  forgets  his  own  grief,  and  when  the  sounds  of 
the  street  come  louder  through  the  windows  newly- 
opened  to  let  in  the  first  of  Spring,  he  vows  his  soul  to 
the  lay  of  the  poor, — the  unprofitable  psalm  of  the  right 
against  the  wrong.  His  spiritual  being  is  the  scene  of 
some  invisible  tragedy  when  we  see  him,  far  away  :  when 
the  streams  are  strewed  with  leaves,  and  the  innocent 
lights  and  shadows  lie  peaceful  aero  s  the  road,  looking 
wistful  as  an  Autumn  afternoon,  with  "Fall"  weather 
in  his  heart,  seeking  in  heaven  some  dead  spirit,  while 
his  own  seems  like  a  moth  in  the  dew  ;  growing 
white  with  one  sweet  souvenir  safe  beneath  the 
snow  upon  his  brow,  and  needing  indeed  to  feel  that 
love  is  older  than  death,  and  mercy  the  song  of  the 
spheres. 

Or  farther  still,  in  the  mute  desert,  exiled ;  gazing 
from  his  little  tent,  with  a  door  whence  the  swallows 
come  ;  floating  over  taintless  tides  skyward  through  the 
beautiful  marvellous  space,  to  the  blue  meadows  among 
the  clouds  untravelled  by  the  sun.  earnestly,  blindly 
searching  amid  the  voiceless  music  of  our  inward  sight 
for  the  one  great  chord — human  and  divine. 

Or  in  Venice,  on  the  Giudecca,  where  the  muffled 
melody  of  a  hundred  loving  hearts  half  hid  in  lamplit 


ENTRE-NOUS.  vii 

gondolas,  has  sent  his  soul  on  sapphire  wings 
athwart  the  night  -  clad  Adriatic,  where  the  moon 
gathers  half  the  sea  into  her  smile,  and  makes  each 
foam-flecked  wavelet  fair  ;— soaring  higher  yet,  to  seek 
the  one  note  of  music  that  shall'  make  all  heaven 
friends.  Or  else  even  plunging  from  his  gondola  to 
taste  the  very  sea  itself  :  swimming  by  its  side  without 
knowing  or  caring  whether  he  went  to  perdition  or  not ; 
and  thence  maybe  to  beautiful  Verona, — beautiful  Ve- 
rona ! — in  memory  of  Borneo  and  Juliet : — swerving  from 
his  love's  balcony  in  the  strange  light,  half  from  the 
fading  window,  half  from  the  kindling  dawn,  hanging 
between  heaven  and  the  Adige,  and  ready  to  take  a 
hand  at  haphazard  for  his  life,  or  a  two-handed  sword 
for  his  love.  Salvator  Eosa  is  much  my  ideal,  and  I 
do  not  see  why  a  poet  should  not  be  a  mighty  hunter, 
and  hold  his  own  with  a  sword  or  a  sonnet  ;  the  soul 
of  honour,  et  tout  pour  son  altesse  la  femme. 

Naturally,  here  I  am  only  speaking  of  the  true 
poet,  par  la  grace  de  Dieu — le  gentilhomme  passionne — 
not  the  fanfaron  of  a  kind  of  artistic  carnality,  nor 
the  poet1?  ^occasion ;  the  charlatan  of  verse,  who  lights 
his  equivocal  incense  on  the  dowdy  shrine  of  human 
vanity,  and  is  about  as  full  of  poetry  as  a  Kidder- 
minster carpet,  and  as  much  at  home  in  the  beautiful 
country  lands  as  a  tin  rat-trap  in  a  bank  of  flowers, 
and  who  becomes  poussif  with  piling  up  his  ethereal 
gewgaw  confectionery.  Glorying — grotesquely  jubilating, 


viii  ENTRF-NOUP. 

in    fact,    in    a    blinkard    peacockism    to    advertise    his 
own  tail. 

By-the-way,  let  me  say  that  I  am  not  levelling  a 
covert  stigmata  at  any  personal  friends  here,  and  I 
mention  it  because  I  once  inadvertently  incurred  a 
virulent  hatred  (which  I  still  recognize  by  an  occasional 
squib  against  me)  for  having  created,  in  a  little  come- 
dietta for  amateurs,  the  character  of  a — Plagiarist — who 
led  a  blighted  existence  from  having  had  one  original 
thought ;  which  he  never  dared  to  use  because  he  could 
not  for  the  life  of  him  remember  where  he  got  it  from. 
But  it  is  this  kind  of  chiffonier  musque  who  has  caused 
us  to  feel  so  utterly  sick  of  "Spring,"  and  the  present 
generation  to  be  born  tired  of  "Autumn,"  and  such 
things  as  "Lines  on  Receiving  a  Green  Pen-wiper"  etc. 
Though  these  little  pipers  who  sing  their  little  loves 
gently  and  equally  in  their  own  verses  and  other 
people's,  are  nothing  to  that  dynamitic  pocket  giant 
of  song  who  knows  he  can  fluster  the  stars  with  his 
candlestick,  and  frighten  the  sea  with  his  walking- 
stick  ;  a  kind  of  Gargantuan  Orpheus,  in  fact,  who, 
when  he  passes  over  the  earth,  the  mountains  double 
up  without  thinking  of  the  marmalade  they  make  of 
the  travellers  in  the  tunnels. 

Let  us  dismiss  these  negres  blancs  with  even  the 
heartrending  dying  words  of  poor  Alfred  de  Musset, 
"  Donnir  !  enfin  je  vais  dormir.'' 

For  my  part,  inasmuch  as  I  have  to  speak  of  my  own 


ENTBE^OUS.  ix 

work  in  this  prefatory  salmagundi,  I  may  truly  say 
that  though  I  write  prose  to  raise  some  principle 
of  right  against  wrong,  or  to  help  the  oppressed, 
I  never  commit  a  line  of  poetry  if  I  can  help  it  ;  but  I 
suppose  my  sensuous  delight  in  form  and  colour  does 
not  enable  me  entirely,  in  painting,  to  give  forth  some 
idyllic  ac3i*etions  which,  if  I  do  not  get  them  out  of 
the  sentient  precinct-*  of  my  temperament,  turn  their 
points  inward  and  give  me  pain.  These  are  hidden 
tithes  of  the  soul,  and,  while  I  try  hard  to  pay  them 
in  full,  I  fear  they  make  me  often  in  need  of  the 
charities  of  the  imagination.  I  write  my  unkempt  verse 
almost  in  the  exact  form  in  which  it  fiist  comes  to  me, 
with  little  after-finish,  preferring  to  brave  a  scant 
countenance  of  hypercriticism,  rather  than  lose  any 
possible  relationship  with  high  attributes  it  may  have 
had,  when  its  imperial  prevalence  compelled  me  to  set 
it  in  its  first  raiment. 

Moreover,  I  believe  if  you  frankly  write  down  some 
simple  thought  that  is  moving  your  heart,  not  more 
ungrammatically  than  is  the  wont  *»f  poets  in  general, 
you  will  surely  find  some  other  heart  to  understand 
it,  and  sympathize,  if  you  ha^  e  but  patience  to  wait. 

Yet  in  all  picturing  of  thought,  we  should  remember 
we  are  <?./> pressing  what  we  see  in  our  heart's  sight  ;  and 
that  which  looks  very  different  to  the  outward  sight  of 
those  we  wish  to  /?w-press,  and  goes  through  an  exactly 
opposite  process  with  them. 


x  ENTRE-NOUS. 

Poetry  is  not  intended  to  run  a  subject  to  earth,  but 
rather  to  elevate  it  and  make  poets  of  those  to  whom 
the  writer  appeals. 

To  take  an  earthly  metaphor  :  All  that  is  required  of 
Poetry  in  her  interpocular  moods  is  to  be  contagious  ; 
therefore,  though  I  may  have  only  joue  du  malheur  en 
choisissant  a  tdtons,  yet  if  I  could  now  and  again  touch 
some  keynote  that  might  solace  one  bereaved  heart, — 
dispel  some  silvery  web  of  a  secret  sorrow,  or  lead  my 
reader  into  kindly  dreams  of  his  own,  far  sweeter  pro- 
bably than  any  I  can  weave  for  him,  I  am  content  to 
vanish,  without  button-holing  him,  as  it  were,  with  my 
preciosite. 

Also,  I  have  a  painful  consciousness  of  two  things  : 
first,  my  temperament  is  probably  for  the  most  part 
that  of  a  painter,  and  secondly  (as  my  critics  have 
noted),  having  been  reared  principally  among  the  tradi- 
tions of  France,  I  think  mostly  in  French  and  conceive 
with  the  brush.  I  therefore  ask  for  la  grande  cour- 
loisie  of  forbearance  for  my  prudent  non-elaboration. 

Undoubtedly,  with  labour  the  most  wayward  measures 
may  be  made  polished  metres  ;  but  (unless  the  piece  is 
for  music)  I  hope  to  be  forgiven  if  they  are  dear  to  me 
in  their  first  poor  array,  when  they  came  to  me  ; 
and  I  see  them  still  in  that  sweet  twilight,  which 
we  say  in  France  is  "  entre  chien  et  loup."  They  are 
Bashi-bazouks  rather  than  a  martinet's  regulars,  and 
poems  en  peignoir.  My  muse  seems  always  to  have  her 


ENTBE-NOUS.  xi 

hair  astrew.  Nobody  is  en  toilette,  and  we  are  strictly 
entre-nous  de  bon  matin. 

The  Press  critics  have  been  the  cause  of  my  not 
changing  this  form  in  poetry.  .  They  are  the  only  sure 
and  penetrating  judges.  I  should  feel  very  crestfallen 
if  my  work  were  full  enough  of  mediocrities  to  "just 
hit  "  the  "general  public,"  and  the  Press  having  solidly 
approved,  I  feel  my  feeling  strengthened. 

I  know  that  if  they  tried  they  could  never  find  more 
faults  in  my  verse  than  I  do  myself ;  and  they  always 
leave  the  correcting  to  me. 

Nevertheless,  a  literary  friend  has  collected  their  favor- 
able verdicts  on  my  work  into  a  volume  of  two  parts, 
forming  about  five  hundred  pages  in  octavo  together, 
the  second  portion  of  which  has  been  reprinted.  I  can 
only  say  I  am  proud  of  them. — lam  most  thankful  to 
have  them  ;  and  to  the  Press  for  those  »urging  words, 
and  I  hold  these  judgments  as  a  talisman  against  all  the 
little  aboiements  lucratifs  at  one's  heels  from  the  lesser 
critics.  I  can  hardly,  perhaps,  render  my  feeling  in 
the  matter  more  intelligibly  than  by  saying  over  again 
that  I  value  the  opinion  of  the  great  Press  more  than 
all.  That  I  like  it  as  a  body  ;  feel  proud  when  any- 
thing I  write  allows  me  to  be  "one  among  them,"  and 
having  been  with  these  hard- worked  pioneers  of  the 
world's  thought  all  over  the  earth,  I  know  their  ukase 
to  be  fearless,  and  themselves  good  men  and  true. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AELIA  (Illusfd) 

AT  THE  EMBASSY  (Illusfd)   - 

A  WARM  NOVEMBER  DAY  (Illusfd}  48 

FAIR  AMSTEL  (Illusfd)  51 

A  LOST  SOUL  (Illusfd)  52 

ANDREVUOLA    -  60 

UNK  FETE  SANS  ELLE  65 

THE  CHOICE  OF  ARMS  67 

DURANTE  LA  VALSA  73 

THREE  MARBLE  STEPS  75 

DAILY  BREAD 

A  DREAM  PICTURE  84 

ASPETTANDO  -         85 

DRIFTING  86 

A  DREAM  is  PASSING  92 

THE  LILY  OF  AMSTEL-LAND  94 

VIOLETS  IN  LONDON  STREETS    •  96 

AN  IMPROMPTU  (lllust'd)       -  98 

ELLE  DIT  "  NON"  102 

A  CKY  OF  LOVE  (Illusfd)  104 

THE  SONG  THEY  LEFT  ON  THE  TERRACE       -  108 

ALY  110 

Two   FATES  112 

A  WORD  OF  TROTH  (Illusfd)  116 

PRESS  NOTICES     -                                              -  119 


XIV 

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGB 

AELIA,  (4  Illustrations)  -        3  26,  32,  38 

AT  THE  EMBASSY  -           -      45 

A  WARM  NOVEMBER  DAY  -  49 

FAIR  AMSTEL        -  -      53 

A  LOST  SOUL  57 

AN  IMPROMPTU     -  -      99 

A  CRY  OF  LOVE  -          105 

A  WORD  OF  TROTH        .            -           -  -           -    117 


pots 

AND 

A  ELI  A. 

Illustrated. 


2  AELIA. 

Moved  fluctuant  past  their  temples,  and  the  air 

All  filled  with  these,  and  overladen,  drooped 

E'en  like  some  unseen  angel's  azure  wing, 

And  ruffled  in  one  long  vibration  low 

The  lamp-lit  waters,  where  the  moonlight  curled 

Close  round  the  imaged  moon. 

0,  happy  tones  i 

Some  swerved  and  sank  in  eddies  down  blue  depths, 
And  some  went  tangled  in  the  silver  beams, 
And  wended  homeward  ways  on  paths  to  heaven. 
And  with  voluptuous  odours  some  were  caught 
And  taken  up  and  smoothly  borne  away 
About  fair  ladies'  ears  in  gondolas  : 
For  it  was  Venice. 

The  Venice  of  wit  and  idlesse  ;  intrigue, 

And  sumptuous  raiment,  elegance  and  love  : 

The  old  sweet  Venezia  del  cinque. 

Bright  Summer  blushed  brimful  of  brave  romance 

On  the  sea-city,  in  those  knightly  times, 

And  Moorish  art  lit  up  the  Greek,  and  warmed 

Quaint  quatro-cento  with  its  Eastern  smile. 

Already  grief  for  glory  gone  shed  round 


\JHIVBRSITY 


AELIA.  5 

A  softening  shade.     There — night  reigned  infinite 

Yet  was  not  night.     But  some  Circassian 

Teiled  maiden,  come  with  violet  eyes  to  hush 

The  tranced  spheres  ; — with  outheld  hands  to  close 

The  wavelet's  eyelid,  lull  the  deep  canals 

And  tell  her  love  while  sleep  looked  down  on  you 

And  smiled,  through  low  Venetian  floating  chimes. 

Aelia,  the  spoiled  and  loveliest  of  Venice, 

Del   Vtneto  la  bianco,  perla, 

The  lady  of  the  radiance,  iris-veiled, 

Opal-like  Aelia,  fairest  of  the  time 

And  wilful  lest  coquette,  would  play  with  love, 

As  with  a  treasure  given  her  to  play  with  ; 

It  came  so  gayly  decked,  so  knightly  knelt : 

So  many  flattered,  likening  her  beauty 

To  the  hanging  gardens  of  the  Lombard  sky, 

That  landward  called  the  clouds  that  looked  on  hec. 

And  thus  her  pride  and  queenlier  caprice 
Grew  up.     Alt  the  nobles  were  but  subjects  ; 
And  the  women  in  their  tongue  had  named  her 
Heartless:   and  anon  a  courtly  noble  too 
Would  think  full  courteously — they  read  aright  i 
And  yet  at  times,  at  times  within  her  eyes 


6  AELIA. 

Were  holy  lures  to  dream  in  hazel  depths. 
And  swimming  shadows,  endless  and  divine. 
Two  lovers,  variously  cast,  diverse 
In  all  things,  stood  the  foremost  in  the  crowd, 
Artim  and  Dardagil.     Great  Artim  won 
The  smile  of  Aelia's  kiu,  and  deigned  to  sue 
For  Aelia's. 

Little  staid  him  where  he  loved. 

Now  he,  men  saw,  was  not  of  Latin  race, 

Thickset  and  strong,  with  hair  upon  his  wrists  • 

Kefined  in  vice,  and  with  an  understream 

Of  wile  that  marked  him  of  his  line.     Hanked  high 

T  the  State  for  many  powers,  and  riches  first. 

His  palace  too,  a  paradise  of  wealth. 

The  flatteries  of  Artim  were  supreme, 

And  weighed  his  words.     It  cost  him  little  toil 

To  weave  his  web  for  women,  whom  he  stalked 

As  doth  the  many-wintered  spider,  grown 

Fastidious  with  spoil.     Meditating 

He  overcast  her  with  a  silent  oath, 

She  should  be  his  ;  and  he  no  man  for  jest. 

The  passion  these  men  know  hath  oft  been  named 
By  love's  own  name,  and  such  mere  bounden  slave 


AELIA.  1 

To  some  such  gnawing  thirst  will  fiercely  swear, 

He  loves  a  maid  whose  soul  hangs  like  a  lark's 

Fresh  song  in  upper  air,  though  he  but  craves 

The  sweet  bird's  blood  to  gorge  him  with  and  spoil. 

All  otherwise  the  loyal  Dardagil, 

Strange  with  the  wayward  passion  of  the  Muse, 

And  his  fantastic  beauty,  and  soft  tint 

Of  olive.     Idle,  tall  ;  as  those  that  leaned 

In  Moorish  Lion-courts,  when  Latin  blood 

Was  swift.     Most  courtly  and  full  warm  ;  yet  'neath 

His  dreamy  indolence  a  panther  lurked. 

And  Artim  almost  wondered  at  his  look 
Of  merry,  dauntless  truth  that  upward  glanced 
From  eyes  that  dimmed  with  others'  woe  alone — 
Nor  every  man  could  read  him  right.     His  friend 
He  well  could  love,  as  women  love,  from  out 
The  heart,  by  inspiration,  giving  all 
And  asking  naught.     Of  grand  old  martial  race 
He  came.     Unlike  them,  save  when  stung  with  heat 
Of  conflict  he  would  wake  and  rouse  his  sires 
That  slumbered  to  his  harping.     Proud  of  birth 
Let  them  be  ; — he  to  rank  among  the  bards 
In  high  noblesse  and  heraldry  of  God. 


8  AELIA. 

Are  poets  loved  of  women  ?     So  desired, 
Caressed,  yet  are  they  loved  before  the  realm 
Within  them  is  revealed — the  scorn,  the  strength, 
The  charity,  the  majesty  ?     This  one 
Sweet  Aelia  mocked,  tho'  mockery  of  him 
She  could  not  suffer :  him  she  threw  her  chains 
Around,  divining  well  this  captive  knight 
The  truest  there,  though  scarce  divining  why  ; 
And  hardly  knowing  yet  the  pain  she  gave, 
The  bliss,  the  fire,  the  torture  of  our  love 
That  youth  nor  reason  e'er  shall  comprehend. 
The  splendor  of  the  vacillating  Spring 
Through  orange  bloom  and  pergola  was  hers, 
And  hers'  Venetian  April's  bright  caprice 
O/  frowns  and  smiles.     Child  and  woman,  fair 
Above  them  all,  and  ever  taught  to  feel 
The  vision  bright  and  dream  of  love  she  was  ; 
The  gentle  monotone  of  Pulci  now — 
Anon  Boiardo's  brighter  dream,  the  thought 
Of  Cimabue  or  strong  pale  Zeuxis 
In  the  past. 

Standing  by  the  lighted  shrine 
To-night  upon  the  terrace,  with  the  stars, 
Herself  the  star  of  half  the  nobles'  eyes, 


AELIA.  9 

She  leaned  with  all  her  swerving  light  of  gems 
Above  the  wavy  palace  with  its  lamps, 
And  softly-ruffled  globe  of  moon,  that  glowed 
Below  the  star-shot  tide. 

And  musing  thus  : 

Save  just  where  once  or  twice,  as  if  by  chance, 
There  lay  a  smooth-cut  emerald,  as  'twere 
Asleep  in  veiled  glow,  her  robe  was  white  ; 
Up-fastened  here  and  there  with  bars  of  gold, 
Dead  gold,  and  fell  in  myriad  idle  folds, 
And  went  away  in  waves.     The  dead  gold  looped 
Her  living  hair  up,  and  became  a  part 
Of  secret  Summer  scent  and  balmy  sheen 
Of  amber.     Soft-hued,  smooth-cut  emeralds 
Upon,  her  neck  and  breast,  she  looked  a  dream  ; 
And  there  was  not  a  glitter  or  an  edge 
In  all  that  presence  ;  but  a  charm  asleep, 
A  love-lit  low  glow,  ruby-like,  that  rose 
And  passed  when  she  passed,  sailing  through  the  sight 
In  only  white  and  green,  and  gold,  dead  gold. 

She  stole  from  Artim  through  bright  groups,  wherein 
Refinement  like  a  perfume  filled  the  air, 
And  raising  here  her  eyes  to  Dardagil, 


10  AELIA. 

"  Thou  lovest  rue,"  she  said  ;  "  tell  me  thereof. 

Or  is  it  much,  or  little,  say,  Sir  Knight ; 

For  are  there  not  varieties  in  love  ? 

I  long  ; — well — fear  to  know,  yet  tell  me  truth  ! 

I'd  have  a  true  love-tale  to-night ;  this  night 

As  Eastern  as  the  fashion  of  thy  brow. 

Ha  !  would  I  trust  thee  wert  thou  not  a  poet  ? 

Poets,  they  say,  will  only  wed  with  truth. 

If  they  are  false,  then  who  is  true,  alack  ! 

I  am  spoilt,  they  say,  so  tell  me  truly  all" — 

Ever  in  woman's  heart  are  two  refrains 
With  echoes  full.     Their  songs  are  :   Yanity, 
And  Love.     Artim  woke  the  first  :    Dardagit 
Roused  love  ;  and  Aelia  listened  unto  both. 

Her  lover  answered  her.     All  clouded  each 

Sweet  sign  upon  his  ever-speaking  face. 

"  You  would  have  truth  ?"    Then  for  the  thousandth  time, 

Remembrance  of  her  tortures  struck  the  wave 

Of  passion  for  her  in  his  heart,  they  met 

And  crashed  like  maddened  waters.     "Love  is  truth. 

I  love  !  And  surely  truth  is  mine — a  trifle  ? 

A  decoration  for  my  lady's  hair  ? 

Yea  1  if  thou  wilt.     I  love  thee,  Aelia,  love  thee, 


AELIA.  11 

0  !  as  this  music  loves  the  air  it  leans  on  ! 

1  love  thee  as  low  music  loves  the  touch 
That's  mother  to  it.     As  that  far-off  wave, 
With  naught  but  other  striving  waves  around, 
Must  love  the  shore.     Aye  !  or  the  mariner 
That  faints  on  it  and  floats  with  that  last  thought 
That  life  could  hold  of  love.     Shall  I  tell  truth  ? 
All  truth,  and  wilt  thou  hear  it  ?"     "  Yea/'  she  said. 
''Then,  Aelia,  I  do  love  thee  with  a  sense 

So  much  above  mere  life,  beyond  mere  death, 

That  when  thou  leav'st  me  in  thy  changeful  moods, 

Like  swallows  turning  dappled  breasts  to  go, 

My  brain  becomes  a  maze  of  folly, — mad  ! 

And  drunken  shades  of  my  distorted  thought, 

Seem  leading  through  my  soul  some  reckless  slow 

Weird  minuet  of  inebriated  night  ! 

My  brows  should  burn  the  world  up  with  their  fire, 

And  fold  so  soft  to  serve  and  tend  thee.     Yet 

How  dare  I  give  myself  to  thee  and  doubt 

Thy  choice  were  wealthier  ?     Queen  sunflower  of  love, 

1  know  that  thou  couldst  lull  me  when   thou  wouldst 

To  dee})  divine  entrancement ;  and  that  thou 

Couldst  bid  me  live  the  life  of  spirits  ;  drown 

Or  dance  me  on  the  ripple  of  the  hour. 


12  AELIA. 

O  !  at  the  thought,  I  seem  like  yon  sea-sand  a, 
Part,  part  left  dry  of  ocean,  part  still  washed 
With  dying  thunders  of  the  ebb.     I  know  thee. 
And  he  that  gives  himself  to  thee,  must  watch 
His  image  in  the  variable  cloud 
Torn  by  the  winds.     I  know  it.     But  the  name, 
That  is  thy  title,  ahoU  not  come  from  me  !" 

Aelia  was  silent  long  ;  amazed  to  hear 

This  truth  she  asked  for  come  from  him  who  loved. 

She  would  have  spoken  then,  maybe  to  plead, 

Or  maybe  to  disdain  him  ;  with  the  wrath 

Of  angry  beauty  crush  him. 

He  was  gone  ! 

All  through  the  night  she  lay  awake,  until 

The    dusk -tipped    wings   of   dawn    had    brought    her 

sleep  ; 

And  then  she  dreamed  by  chance  her  face  was  changed, 
She  went  unrecognized  of  kith  and  kin, 
And  when  she  cried  that  she  was  xlelia, 
"The  little  Aelia,   that  untamed  coquette," 
They  scoffed,  and    frowned,  and    turned    her  from  the 

door. 
Then  sobbed  she,  "  Bring  me  Dardagil  !     0  he, 


13 


He  knows  me  well."     And  a  strange  woman  said, 
"  He  cannot  know  thee,  Dardagil  is  mine." 
Then  fell  she  from  the  threshold  screaming  loud,  — 
And  found  her  maidens  round  her,  and  her  pillow 
Wet  with  tears. 

She  rose,  and  all  the  day, 
And  alway  after,  robed  herself  in  sable. 
And  then  though  Artim  woo'd  and  chafed,  and  chafed 
And    woo'd  ;    her    heart    was     fain    and    fortressed. 

Strange, 

Full  strange  to  change  for  one  hard  word,  but  now 
She  only  lived  on  hope  and  Dardagil. 
With   heart   and  lips  whose  words  were   worth   their 

kisses 

Adoring  the  banished  idol  that  she  made. 
That  stalwart  form,  those  large  fatigued  eyes. 
And  in  her  breast  anon  took  sanctuary, 
And  raised  high  convent  walls  of  purity 
Around.     Then,  labour  in  despair,  in  vain 
The  goodliest  gifts  were  sent  by  Artim  ;  gems 
Hid  deep  in  utmost  eastward  ocean 
Such  as  Venice  even,  she  the  jewelled  queen 
Of  all  the  seas,  scarce  knew,  and  courtly  maid 
Had  coveted.     But  Aelia  put  them  back, 


14  AELIA. 

These  that  once  had  been  the  beauty's  armour, 
As  valueless  : — that  made  her  mother's  eyes 
Who  brought  these  gifts,  to  shine  so  tenderly 
On  her  (and  them).     For  that  Aelia  of  old, 
Whom  they  were  seeking,  the  proud  coquette, 
Lay  at  the  bottom  of  her  jewel-case 
Like  a  dead  turquoise. 

Dardagil  meanwhile 

Bled  unseen,  like  the  root  whose  one  sweet  nower 
Is  plucked.     And  paced  the  hidden  side  of  all 
That  Eastern  splendour  littered  in  the  bright 
Venetian,  ways  abruptly  edged  with  shade 
To  hear  each  day  from  kith  and  kin  (so  kind). 
Aye,  even  from  the  very  gondoliers, 
The     clank     that     linked     her     name    with    Artim's. 

Praying 

With  riven  heart  that  he,  this  Artim,  might 
But  love  her  well  ;  and  had  he  even  known 
She  loved  him  (pondering  on  that  truth  he  said), 
His  higher  knighthood  held  him  mute  :   for  self 
Had  passed  away,  and  chivalry  or  fear 
To  hinder  her  from  higher  choice,  held  bound 
His  heart  in  realms  beyond  the  easy  ways 
Of  love  with  love  returned,  for  he  had  cast 


AELIA.  15 

His  bosom  on  the  waters,  or  to  love 
And  float,  or  love  and  die. 

And  all  this  while 

Bright  Tintoretto,  witb  his  god-like  hand 
Enriched  these  days,  and  all  along  the  shade 
The  soft-eyed  maids  with  hair  our  Titian  loved 
Bore  wavering  vases  laughing  to  the  wells. 
And  so  the  empty-handed  Spring  sailed  by 
In  sable  gondolas  and  crescent  moons. 

But  thick-browed  Artim,  brooding  on  ma  schemes 

To  satiate  a  passion  foiled,  let  not 

The  hours  go  unsown.     He  had  a  creature 

Here,  of  one  same  mother  born,  who  served  him 

Abjectly  ;  with  whom  in  hours  of  play, 

The  eves  of  daily  labour,  for  the  State's 

Behoof,  the  dark  forethoughtful  man  would  fence, 

To  keep  his  hand  in  for  a  sudden  call, 

And  'tween  the  passes  would  he  rallyingly, 

And  with  an  indication  of  the  steel, 

Hint  at  grave  deeds  that  might  be  done  and  should — 

And  then  again  on  guard. 

The  high  lamp's  light 
In  Artim's  palace,  shown  abroad  o'er  Venice, 


16  AELIA. 

Would  often  check  the  laughing  gondoliers. 

Returning  from  a  festa  it  would  make 

The  holy  hush  of  still  canal  and  square 

Significant  of  evil.     Heavenly  night 

In  Venice  shared  the  gaze  of  eager  dame 

And  cavalier  on  that  inscrutable 

High  lamp  and  lone.     "  What   plots   he   now  ?"  they 

hint. 
"  And  whom  against  ?" 

A  gondola  was  framed 
Even  like  a  sister  unto  Aelia's  own. 
"And  thou,"  said  Artim  to  his  brother,  "  Seek 
This  canzonettiug  boy  on  whom  her  soul 
Is  fixed.     Say  we  brothers  hate  as  brothers  : 
And  you  would  be  revenged  through  him  on  me  ; 
This  well  implied  :  then  bring  him  where  this  boat, 
Mysteriously  closed,  divides  the  ripples 
As  though  from  off  Murano.     Then,  me  he  sees 
Reclining  in  it  like  the  lord  of  it, 
My  lady  hidden.     Dost  thou  mark  me  well?'' 

Twas  done  :  and  soon  the  softly  swerving  lie, 

As  if  from  off  Murano,  in  the  crowd 

Of  muffled  boats  or  gaily  decked  appeared 


AELIA.  17 

Athwart  the  golden  waves  by  Dardagil, 
And  as  he  looked  his  heart  leaped,  for  Artim 
Sat  therein  ! — 

But  Dardagil  went  on  with  talk 
To  Artim's  brother  carelessly,  and  said  : 
11  How  change  sails  on  in  Venice  !     Here  have  I 
But  little  time  been  absent,  and  'tis  robed 
Anew."     But  quick  his  trembling  arm  betrayed 
The  poison  of  the  plot  that  worked  in  him 
From  head  to  heel  ;  each  fibre  of  his  heart 
Grew  marble,  so  that  violence  of  will  ; 
His  own  true  stern  nobility  alone — 
Just  held  him  on  the  crash  of  rage,  that 'whelmed 
Despair,  and  swayed  him  almost  e'en  to  curse 
At  Aelia's  name.     "  And  yet,  not  this  !"  he  said, 
"  I  could  have  worn  the  crown  of  thorns,  to  know 
This  Artim  loved — an'  he  but  loved  her  well." — 
And  then,  with  outstretched  hands,  as  though  to  stem 
Hot  tears  from  teeth  of  fire,  "  His  love  is  vile — 
Would  kill  her."     Then  suddenly— "  Your  brother 
Has  hurt  you,  cavalier.      We  follow  him  ; 
The  sore  may  spread  too  far." 

The  brother  fain 
Had  made  him  turn  ;  remembering  how  he  once 


18  AELIA. 

For  but  a  tiny  woid  against  her  fame 

Hurled  huge  Miguel,  the  very  Doge's  son, 

There  headlong  in  the  Grand  Canal.     "  But  now," 

Low  down  within  himself,  unheard  he  said, 

"  Unnerved,  he'll  fall  upon  a  practiced  sword, 

If  haply  sword-play  issue  of  it.''     Grim 

He  eyed  the  chase,  and  on  the  marble  steps 

Of  Artim's  palace  Dardagil  sprung  forth 

To  summon  Artim.     Courteously  the  two 

Saluted,  Artim  smiling  hard. 

"Returned 

To  life  ?"  he  said.     And  Dardagil :  "  Or  else 
Embarked  for  death,  or  you  !"— 

"Is  that  a  ooem 
In  birth  ?"  sneered  Artim. 

"  My  good  sword  may  write 
It  on  thy  breast  1"  hurled  fiercer  Dardagil. 
"Thy  Muse  a  boy's  untempered  jealousy  !" 
Cried  Artim. 

Then  Dardagil,  his  head  erect 
Once  more:    "  I  hardly  heed  your  empty  seats 
Your  gondola  shows  ill  your  craft  !     Not  I, 
'Tis  thou  crt  jealous  here.     I  had  thought  more 


AELIA.  19 

Of  Artim's  jealousy.     Swift  jealousy  ! 

Whose  harsh  hawk's  eye  is  blind  to  all  but  blood, 

And  speaks  not  till  'tis  done.      Had  I  a  right 

To  jealousy,  I'd  break  thee  as  the  wave 

This  brittle  bark,  and  leave  thee  littered  there 

On  Lido's  shore  till  wind  and  wave  had  washed 

The  ugly  stain  away."     Artitn  just  held 

His  rage  enough  to  say,  "My  lady  bird 

To  the  palace  comes  not  yet  ;  I  have  dropped 

Her  dainty  feet   at   home  ;   the  world's   tongue  wags, 

You  know." 

"Breathe  not  her  name  aloud,   Seigneur," 
Said  Dardagil.     "  We  slash  no  lady's  name, 
We  that  are  noble,  with  our  meeting  swords. 
And  pray  you  do  not  vex  the  truth  with  lies 
And  plots  so  low  that  serving  fiends  of  hell 
Would  loathe  them.     See,  the  very  gondola 
Swings     backward    from    your     feet     as     though     it 

scorned 

Incarnate  liars  !     Yet  do  I  acknowledge 
That  you  outstripped  me  in  our  race  to-night, 
And  reached  the  palace  first,  as  being  your  own 
You  well  might  do.     Still  I  am  discontent, 
And  smite  you.     Surely  this  is  cause  enough 


20  AELIA. 

For  crossing  swords,  and  who  needs  more — needs  none/' 
Then  Artim's  fury  blazed  !  *  * 

*  *  *  #  *  *  * 

Night,  with  the  star 

Of  unvanquished  will,  frets  the  smooth-blown  sands 
Of  Lido's  shore.     Full  soon  'twill  flash  the  swords 
Of  foes  ;  sparkling  off  their  steel  and  the  wave's 
Phosphoric  lunging  foam  at  intervals 
Against  their  footing, 

Artim's  mind  was  cool, 
For  ne  had  seen  his  fever'd  foe  stoop  down 
To  cool  his  forehead  in  the  sea  :  he  knew 
Kind  Fortune  doth  prefer  the  stronger  hand,. 
And  felt  it  was  his  own. 

Pale  but  elate, 

Dauntless  stood  Dardagil,  his  doublet  off, 
The  weird  white  moonlight  on  his  open  front, 
And  on  his  well-squared  breast  and  shoulders  broad,. 
His  long  bright  rapier  drawn,  the  point  upon 
The  ground,  the  cold  light  just  warmed  in  his  eyes? 
Just  falling  through  his  graceful  lifted  hair, 
His  shadow  at  his  feet.     A  long  trailed  star 
Fell  swiftly  then,  and  to  his  confidant 


AELIA. 

•Said  Dardagil,  "I  know  the  sign.     I  fight 
For  her,  and  fall  for  her,  not  me,  God  wot. — 
By  moonlit  seas,  and  where  she  often  comes, 
With  lights  of  Venice  my  beloved  in  sight, 
That  Aelia  smiles  upon.     What  more  need  I  ? 
"Out  upon  her,"  cried  his  friend,  "and  wilt  thou 
So  tamely  die  for  her  who  used  thee  so  ? 
I  would  that  she  were  dead.''     Then  Dardagil 
Was  wroth  indeed.     "Aye,  though  I  died  for  her 
An  hundred  times,  an  hundredfold  am  I 
Her  knight  and  slave  right  thankfully.     Doth  ev'n 
The  lion  turn  upon  the  lioness, 
And  shall  man  be  less  ?     I  charge  thee,  see 
Thou  tell  her  not  my  end.     Though  Aelia's  tears 
Were  Heaven  to  me,  'twere  hell  to  have  them  fall,, 
Or  know  her  bosom  rose  unevenly, 
Even  in  Heaven.     Do  this,  and  only  take 
Her  silent  homage  and  my  mute  devoir  ; 
Then  make  obeisance  low  as  to  the  queen, 
And  let  my  love,  not  grievings  and  regrets, 
Breathe  out  itself  (if  she  should  ask  thee  aught) 
In  this  last  dying  sign." 

He  raised  his  rapier 
.From  the  pricked  sand,  and  waited  for  his  foe. 


22  AELIA. 

Then  bright  the   four  long   sword-points  glanced,  and 

left 
The  work  of  death  with  two. 

There's  something  rare 
In  that  first  courtly  altercation.     Few 
The  thrusts  at  first,  till  Dardagil  dropped  blood. 
This    roused    him,    though    at    each    new    touch    he 

smiled, 

And  smiled  more  sharply.     Artim  pressed  him  hard, 
Half  in  disdain  ;  and  but  for  deadly  ire 
Had  cast  the  now  unskilled  opponent  off, 
That  could  but  break  and  foil,  to  bleed  and  live. 
But  deadly  ire  and  thirst  for  triumph  strung 
His  arm  ;  he  pressed  to  seize  the  victory. 
Gasping  he  stopped.     Dardagil  lowered  his  sword 
The  guard  was  quick  renewed  in  silence. — Thanks 
For  generous  forbearance  there  were  none. 
More  now  in  frantic  malice  Artim  fought, 
Until  at  last  in  miserable  spite, 
His  rival  to  unnerve,  he  cried  the  name 
Of  Aelia. 

"  Aelia  !  Let  her  not  be  named  !" 
Cried  Dardagil,  and  swift  with  flashing  feint 
Pierced  Artim  through  the  breast. 


AELIA.  23 

The  moon  glanced  pale 
Upon  an  upturned  face,  then  hid  her  eyes, 
While  Dardagil  was  hurried  to  the  boats, 
With  hollow  sound  of  feet  without  the  voices, 
And  silence  sailed  with  them    across  the  sea. 
The  wailing  night-birds  circled  over  it, 
Strange  fogs  rose  foul  and  fell  from  out  of  it. 
Adrift  on  ghostly  and  forlorn  lagoons 
The  lonely  heron  watched  them,  and  the  birds 
Of  reeds  and  rankest  grasses  rose  in  flocks 
Along  that  shore  of  idle  ebb  and  ooze  ; 
Until  they  reached  the  long  gray  line  of  land. 

Ere  in  the  east  the  night  had  bled,  the  news 

Had  gathered  tenfold  blooclliness,  and  spread 

To  Venice,  of  its  statesman  Artim  slain, 

And  his  successor  would  not  dry  his  tears 

(Poor  man)  until  a  price  on  Dardagil 

Was  laid.     And  all  the  mainland  round  was  searched. 

But  if  his  enemy  were  dead  indeed, 
Or  if  the  gentle  lady  of  his  love, 
The  once  capricious  Aelia,  thought  of  him 
Still  tenderly,  he  knew  not — an  exile  ; 
Doomed  by  the  rigid  finger  of  the  state. 


24  AELIA. 

No !  no  ; — no  balm  now  soothed  Aelia's  despair 
Save  healing  others'  woe.     Her  golden  hair 
She  strewed  along  her  shoulders  heedlessly, 
Moving  through  the  palace  pale  and  proud. 
Ever  with  daily  tears  she  spoke  his  name. 
His  name  !     Maybe  the  melancholy  air 
Might  echo  where  he  was,  and  bid  her  fly 
To  him,  to  be  but  near  him,  and  be  his. 

One  moment,  O  pause  there,  and  stay, 
Dork  clouds  girt  about  the  sweet  sun. 
You  so  crowd  on  him  one  by  one  ; 
O!  my  love  is  craving,  and  none 

Seem  to  heed  me,  mourning  away  ! 

Stay,  stay,  weeping  wave*  of  the  main  ! 

Sobbing  sounds  of  lover.-;  that  mourn! 

T<>e  wave  that  came  up  with  the  dawn, 

And  broke  into  smiles,  is  it  gone? 
Is  there  no  n turning  again  ? 

O  Summer-day,  why  with  eyes  wet 

Wilt  close  all  the  sweet  lovers'  hours? 
Tis  but  the  month  of  the  shadows  and  showers, 
Of  tweet  crescent  moons  increasing  the  flowers, 

Cans't  be  for  leaving  us  yet  f 


AELIA.  27 

With  a  darkness  where  stars  never  come 
The  sun  is  eclipsed  and  accursed, 
And  the  water  that  slaketh  no  thirst 
From  Hell's  writhing  ocean  hath  burst 

Wi'h  &  fierce  fringe  of  flame  in  the  foam! 


Artim  wounded,  on  Lido  shore  that  night 

Bled  bitterly  ;  but  even  in  his  trance 

Of  faintness,  with  a  gleam  of  ruling  craft, 

Gasped,  "Not  Venice  P  and  while  his  brother's  ear 

Was  bowed  to  him,  commanded  they  should  bear 

By  stealth  his  body  to  Murano's  isle, 

While  solemn  obsequies  and  published  death 

Of  this  Venetian  crafty  councillor 

Brought  execration  on  his  rival's  head, 

And  swift  decrees  of  exile.     All  was  done, 

And  hour  by  hour  did  Artim  in  his  room 

Of  refuge  in  Murano  fight  with  death. 

Death  wavered  as  to  which  one  of  the  three 
His  hand  should  touch— or  Artim  on  his  bed, 
Or  Aelia  bereft,  or  Dardagil 
Condemned  in  exile.     Death  just  poised  his  shaft 
Between  them,  swerving  heedlessly  as  though 


28  AELIA. 

'Twas  hung  aloft  on  the  crook'd  weathercock 
Of  the  little  Lombard  tower  of  silent  old 
Murano's  fisher  church,  while  mass  was  said. 
And  hiding,  Artim  fought  the  slayer  well — 
Fought  hand  to  hand  in  that  small  stealthy  house, 
And  turned  him  to  his  purpose.     Death  drove  out 
His  foe  ;  and  when  nigh  spent  he'd  find  a  help 
In  thoughts  of  Aelia  and  her  utter  woe. 

Remote  in  homeless  lands  the  banished  friend 

Of  Venice,  Aelia's  lover,  lived   within 

Himself ;  his  body  there,  his  soul  across  the  earth. 

A  grief  in  sleep  and  waking  ! — Saw 

The  chill  gray  twilight  of  that  morn  he  fled 

Across  the  ghostly  and  forlorn   lagoon 

Where  lone  the  heron  watched  him,  and  the  birds 

Of  reeds  and  rankest  grasses  rose  in  flocks 

Along  the  shore  of  idle  ebb  and  ooze  ; 

Saw  Venice  dimly  through  his  tears,  as  though 

It  loomed  in  rain  and  fog.      And  silent  oft 

As  list'ning  unto  slips  ot  angels'  songs 

That  dropped  about  the  earth  unheard  of  men 

Would  look  as  wistful  as  an  afternoon  ; 

And  seem  to  strive  to  catch  some  spent  refrain 


AELIA.  29 

Of  bygone  time,  as  village  children  do 

At  the  dragged  wheat-ears  in  the  Autumn  lanes 

Where  wains  have  passed. 

A  sorrow's  song  he  made, 
A  song  of  gleaning  when  the  fields  are  bare. 

Therms  the  sunlight  and  the  shadows  and  the  changes 

of  the  day, 
And  my  lovs,  my  sunlight,  now  so  changed,  a?  sad  as 

it  was  gay  ; 
And  my  life — 'tis  but  the   gleaning   of  a  life  that's 

burnt  away. 

Waiting,  wailing  wifh   the  c'ouds,  in   all  the   drowsy 

amber  sky, 
The  sun  comes   down  to  kiss  them,  ir,  golden-veined 

eternity  ; 
1  alone  am  left,  with  ships  and  heavy  hours  sailing 

by. 

Gleaning,  gleaning,  could   thy    dream  but  glean    one 

thought  of  mine  to-day, 
One  little  word,  you'd  know  it,  and  an  angel  as  they 

say 
Might  leave  a  chink  above  the  clouds,  I'd  see  through 

far  away. 


30  AELIA. 

So  I  wait  through  all  the  May-time,  with  its  frail  air 

full  of  thee : 
And  flitting  hopes  likt  go-gamers   that   seem  to  float 

to  me. 
And  now  we  glean  thefadea  Jtowers  of  fainted  ecstasy. 

Yet  'tis  sweet  in  happy  hay-time  wi  h  the  buds  all 
waiting  near, 

To  wait  beneath  the  willows  while  the  lily  cups  ap- 
pear ; 

But  'tis  hard  to  ivait  in  Winter  time,  when  a'l  is  dead 
and  drear. 

When  the  Autumn  dies  of  weeping,  and  the  gleaning 

tempests  blow, 
Gleaning   hopes   and  latest   leaves   that  fly,  and  fade 

away  and  go  ! 
Then  I  look  for  thee   in  Heaven  ;  and  it  sends  me 

down  the  snow! 

We  live  but  where  the  heart  is  ;  following  fast 
His  songs  in  fancy,  Dardagil  no  more 
Could  hold  himself  from  Aelia  ; — gave  she  bliss, 
The  block,  or  oubliettes.  .  .  . 

In  monkish  garb, 
Of  dark  Dominican,  and  cowled,  he  stole 


UHI7BRSITY 


AELIA.  33 

Through  Venice  :  and  like  steps  upon  his  way, 
The  old  familiar  churches  one  by  one 
He  entered,  thinking  "  Here  she  is,  and  here — 
Perhaps  another's  !  and  in  penitence  ; 
Perhaps  beneath  the  stones  dead,  dead  1" 

He  passed 

The  steps  of    shrines  groove-worn  by  kneeling  knees, 
Quaint  Lombard  carvings  loved  of  lovers  too 
(For  there's  a  twilight  haunts  them),  till  he  reached 
A  chapel  bearing  Artirn's  name.     The  walls, 
The  altar-table,  were  behung  with  wreaths, 
Flowers,  and  ex-votos  ;  one — the  centre  one — 
From  Artim  !  this  was  Artim's  chapel  ! — this 
Artim's  thank-offering  for  life  restored  !— 
That  blazed  the  exile  as  a  coward's  ruse. 

While  Dardagil  stood  there  in  whirling  doubt, 
Half  fathoming  the  cunning  of   the  man 
Of  craft  most  fathomless,  he  heard  a  voice  ; 
Whose  rich  contralto  tones  struck  him  to  stone. 
Low  wailed  the  voice,  "Sweet  Maddalena  loved  ; 
Dear  mother  of  repenting  !     Madeleine  ! 
Too  much,  maybe,  to  see  him  and  be  loved  ; 
But  thou  couldst  love  as  none  have  loved  on  earth, 


34  AELIA. 

And  look  for  love,  but  love,  to  ransom  thee. 

I  too  have  Tintoretto-hair  like  thee, 

And  surely  thou  wilt  hear  ray  wail,  when  I 

Renounce  myself  to  live  in  him  I  love, 

If  yet  he  lives  ! — if  yet  he  lives  !     But  once 

To  lift  my  lips  to  his  ;  say,  '  I  repent,' 

Say,  'I  am  changed — changed  wholly  by  that  love 

So  high  arid  passing  sweet  he  gave  me  once': 

And  then,  O  Maddalena  !  up  to  thine, 

With  thee  and  thine  to  look  on  him  from  heaven  I 

For  I  must  die.     I  cannot   yield  my  hand 

To  Artim,  he  that  hounds  me  ;  and  my  kin 

Help  him,  0  Maddalena,  and  he  strives, 

And  living  I  am  weak,  and  dying  strong, 

And  so,  sweet  Maddalena,  let  roe  come  1" 

Her  .lover  now  had  sunk  upon  his  knees, 
Thrilled  by  the  voice  to  ecstasy,  and  by  all 
That  bitter  wail  whose  lifted  tones  unveiled 
Her  love  ;  unmanned  a  space.     'Twas,  0  so  sweet 
To  hear  ;  so  strange,  unhoped  ;  her  presence  seemed 
A  spirit  in  the  gloom,  that  spoke  with  Heaven  ; 
And  awed,  he  wrapped  his  head  till  she  might  fade 
Like  some  mute  after-rapture  of  a  prayer.— 


AELIA.  35 

She  rose,  and  saw  the  well-knit  monk  that  knelt. 

And  lest  she  should  disturb  him ;  softly  left 

Her  wonted  altar.     Then  recovering,  he 

Looked  up,  as  from  a  trance,  and  there  was  heard 

Low  talk — in  which  a  man's  harsh  tongue  pronounced 

Her  lover's  name.     Great  God  !  'twas  Artim's  voice. 

Near  stunned,  "  Aelia  !''  he  cried  ;  flung  off  his  cowl, 

And  called  her  to  him,  challenged  Artim  turn  ; 

On  his  life  to  turn  !     Flew  the  dim  aisle's  length, 

Where  Artim  dragged  faint  Aelia  to  the  porch. 

'Twas  but  a  flash,  before  a  devil's  laugh, 

One  shriek,  one  flicker  of  a  flying  veil, 

And  then  the  door  with  crashing  thunder  closed. 

When  Dardagil  was  master  of  himself, 

From  all  the  maddening  of  that  moment  past, 

The  echoes  of  the  roar  that  rolled  all  round 

And  round  this  prison-house  were  settling  high 

In  carven  roof. 

An  oriel  window  shone, 
And  set  a  laughing  light  upon  a  tomb. 
He  gazed  at  it  right  steadfastly.     "  For  there 
The  way  must  be  !" 

As  swift  he  climbed,  he  caught 
Now  demon's  head  and  ears,  now  angel's  wing, 


36  AELIA. 

Now  bat-like  battling  on  the  wall  a  space-, 
Now  swinging  pendent  ;  daringly  at  last 
Scaling  the  aperture,  and  straining  through, 
He  drew  his  girdle  tight  ;  and  heeding  not 
Or  height  or  depth,  he  stood  erect,  and  sprang 

Below  him  flowed  the  dark  canal. 

"A  sword  I1" 

He  shouted,  as  from  out  the  heedless  tide 
He  lay  upon  a  barcarole's  breast. 
And  picked  in  haste  some  men  of  these  and  cried,. 
"  A  sword,  and  to  Lord  Artim's  house,  and  quick  !" 
These  sons  of  Venice  knew  in  that  monk's  garb 
A  gallant  of  the  city.     Oue  even  sang 
A  song  of  Dardagil's  :   "Sword,  sword."     It  ran, 
"  0  sword,  be  true,  and  bright  and  true  and  swift 
For  ladies  sweet,  and  hearts,  be  true  as  steel'' 
And  then  the  end,  all  writ  that  time 
When  he  but  hoped  to  meet  his  love  on  high. 

Yet  our  hearts  in  the  land  beyond  parting 
Shall  meet  in  the  closes  of  rest, 

And  be  laid  in  the  wings  of  an  angel, 
And  beat  in  the  selfsame  breas . 


AELIA.  39 

Beneath  their  oars  the  barca  plunged  and  flew, 

And  on  the  wave  they  gave  to  him  the  steel 

For  prompt  affairs.     Now  nearing,  he  beheld 

A  boat  already  crouching  'neath  an  arch 

Of  Artim's  palace.     Then  he  cried  :   "Good  friends, 

1  am  that  Dardagil,  and  come  to  save 

A  noble  maiden  ;  see  me  not  outmatched." 

The  secret  archway's  bolts  borne  down  with  blows, 

And  fighting  every  inch,  and  Dardagil 

With  reddening  sword  to  lead  and  cheer  them  on, 

At  last  to  Artim's  chamber  burst  the  men. 

But  Aelia  had  been  hidden  in  the  midst 

Of  this  his  palace,  vast  as  ancient  fort, 

Immured  in  some  high  lodgement  that  a  spring 

Touched  light  would  whirl  to  unknown  depths  with  all 

Therein.     Such  outrage  to  the  maiden's  kin 

Were  naught  to  one  so  high  in  Venice  then, 

And  he  could  hold  her,  while  his  foe,  and  dupe, 

Remained  outwitted  and  condemned  beneath 

The  sentence  of  the  State.     But  seeing  now 

The  hated  face  between  him  and  his  prize — 

The  face  he  thought  all  barred  by  iron  laws— 

Fierce  Artim  stood  aghast.     Then  they  seized  him 

In  a  flash:  ana  Aelia  found  at  last,  sh^  tiung 


40  A  ELI  A. 

Herself  on  Dardagil's  good  arm  and  cried  : 
"  The  traitor  is  betrayed.    Death  he  may  deal. 
But  never  can  he  claim  me  of  my  friends, 
Who  thus  dishonours  them.      We're  free  to-day, 
0  Dardagil,  my  love  !     My  saviour  now  ; 
These  palace  walls  shall  hold  me  not  alive." 

Artim  made  one  rush — 
His  last  ! — held  tightly  as  he  was  ;  his  men 
Had  fallen,  and  the  barcarolo  bent 
To  whisper  then  to  Dardagil:    "Escape; 
If  but  he  stamp  his  foot,  more  minions  mount 
From  under.     Most  we've  spitted  ;  let  them  writhe.*' 

Then  Dardagil  took  Aelia  'neath  his  sword 
And  led    her  toward  the  gondolas.     "  Long  life," 
He  laughed.     "Long  life  to  you,  my  brave  Seigneur.' 
His  long  bright  rapier  swinging  on  his  hip, 
"The  lady  Aelia's  palace,  an  she  will, 
Shall  be  our  meeting-place. 

The  past  is  writ 

In  water,  but  the  present  writ  in  blood. 
Your  life  is  much  to  me,  for  I  love  home, 
And  you  alive,  I  have  a  home  in  Venice." 


AELIA.  41 

There's  oft  one  ray  that  dances  on  a  wall, 

Of  sunny  wavelets  born  upon  the  deep 

Canal  where'er  'tis  kissed  by  vagrant  airs 

Or  gondola  or  barca  swaying  on. 

And  idle  boatmen  watch  it,  maidens  too, 

And  children  laugh  at  it,  and  mothers  oft 

Will  show  it  to  their  sucklings  till  they  crow. 

It  quivers  up  bright  Aelia's  balcony, 

Fantastic  as  a  spirit,  aye,  the  sprite 

Of  human  joy  that  makes  the  favouring  sky 

To  beam  on  circumstance  :    0  waters  sweet 

Of  lovers'  dreams  !     And  still  the  heart  of  love 

Than  sea-wave  deeper  is,  and  than  sunlight 

Even  brighter  is,  nor  has  its  ecstasy 

One  word  of  speech.     But  every   sunlit  wave 

In  Venice  seems  to  send  a  leaping  beam 

To  quiver  up  the  balcony  to  them 

And  bliss  sailed  in  with  it  upon  the  wind 

Without  one  cloud  to  carry  all  across 

The  Lombard  sky,  and  both  were  mute,  too  blest 

For  words  to  whisper  e'en  each  other's  names. 

Aelia  and  Dardagil  and  western  sky 

Sinking  like  the  very  raptured  silent  sun 

Itself  in  closing  Heavens,  heart  in  heart, 

Rapt  hand  in  hand,  eyes  trembling  up  to  eyes. 


42 


AT    THE    EMBASSY. 

Paris. 

OF  all  the  Paris  season's  gayest  balls,  the  Embassy  was  the 
most  superbly  brilliant  last  night.  Below,  the  waltzes,  youth,  age, 
dullness,  wit,  love,  bliss  and  anguish,  seemed  speaking  all  their 
different  languages,  in  every  tongue.  Near  a  tottering  diplomat 
and  an  intriguing  ancient  Duchess,  stood  a  lovely  young  girl 
with  a  distinguished-looking  man,  somewhat  her  elder,  evidently 
of  a  different  nationality.  They  were  beneath  the  tall  domes  of 
the  conservatory,  just  where  the  sumptuous  glow  and  music  came 
faintly  'neath  the  still  stately  tropic  leaves.  She  seemed  rooted 
there,  with  all  her  love  in  her  half-closed  lips,  like  some  twining- 
plant  with  a  thousand  sweet  buds  waiting  but  one  warm  May 
morning  to  burst  into  bloom  and  turn  that  longed-for  dawn  into 
a  thousand  petaled  rays  and  hues. — He  had  come  there  at  last 
with  strength  enough  to  tell  her  they  never  more  must  meet. 
Kinder  for  these  two  were  the  chilliest  northern  blast  than  this 
soft  searching  music,  for  they  had  each  in  different  directions 
glided  on  the  fatal  highroad  of  love,  whence  is  no  return  :  that 
long  pathway  that  crumbles  away  behind  the  steps  of  all  who 
travel  it. — It  was  coming,  that  fearful  farewell  to  lips  which  never 
should  have  met,  and  shall  meet  no  more  save  on  the  trackway 
to  Heaven  that  is  beat  by  the  feet  of  the  dead. 


IT  was  the  last  ball  there — 

Au  Ministere  des  Affaires  Etrangeres  I 

They  were  near  to  a  serre, 

On  sait  si  bien  les  faire, 

II  faisait  bon  in  the  laden  air. 

Auburn — more  than  auburn  was  her  hair. 


AT   THE  EMBASSY.  43 

Nothing  is  more  loving  than  the  entreaty  of  her  gaze, 
No  lily  on  a  tendril  more  tender  than  her  grace, 
Than  he,  no  one  more  stricken,  such  a  sadness  on  his 
face. 

They  silently  lingered  together 

Until  the  waltz  began, 
Then  won  by  the  ways  of  the  measure 

Thus  a  whisper  ran. 

You   know   not    what  you're   asking,  0    saintly   little 

maid, 

Innocent  and  beautiful  indeed  I 
They   know   not   what    they're    asking,    those,    longing 

hazel  eyes  ; 

All  that  a  glance  in  a  glance  can  read— 
The  idyll  of  a  soul  in  a  s^veet  parenthesis. 

I  envy  the  confusion  of  your  heart's  convulsive  thrill, 

Sa  tendresse  qui  tresaille — its  deep,  its  mute  reproach. 

I'd  gladly  weep  with  tears  like  yours  because  I  can't 
reveal 

A  secret  like  your  secret,  that  so  throbs  at  my  ap- 
proach, 

And  covet  even  more  than  you  the  love  I  cannot  feel. 


44  AT   THE  EMBASSY. 

You  say  you'd  pardon  all  my  faults,  your  love  would 

never  swerve. 
O  white   soul   swimming   swan-like  on   the  stream  of 

destiny, 
That  sings   so   sweet,  yet   only  feels  its  voice   that  it 

may  die, 

Vous  prechez  un  converti. —  Yes!  a  life  without  a  love 
Is  like  a  magic   lantern  without  a  light  to  me. 
But  the  curse  my  kiss  would  give  you  would  be  worse 

than  you  can  think. 
Thrilled  like  water  in  a  vase  wherein  we  drop  a  drop 

of  ink. 
Aye,  your  love    breathes  like   Springtide  on   the    full 

redundant  lands, 

And  when  we  watch  the  wild   flowers  in   little   chil- 
dren's hands. 
Mine  but  shames  the  shabby  Winter  ;  with  each  new 

life  it  gives, 
Like  a  land  of  little  Summer  in   the  sun  without  the 

leaves. 
There  waits  a  cruel  woman  near   to  whom  my  being 

clings, 
With  a  gorgeous    Eastern    beauty :  with    arms    that 

spread  like  wings, 


AT  TEE  EMBASSY.  47 

la  which  I  fly  to  endless  realms  that  Hire  but  in  my 

brain — 
To  heavens    full    of  emptiness   I    search    and    searcn 

again  ! 
You — you  long    to    give   me   life,  and   yet.  I  breatne 

but  in  her  gaze, 
And  she  battens    my  ambition  on   the   leaven    of  her 

praise  ; 

I  clamber  -at  a  will-o'-the-wisp  like  squirrels  in  a  cage. 
I've  a  habit  now  of  loving  her — un  fatal  sortilege. 
Ses   moindres    petits    riens   si   beaux  ;    my    own    eyes 

plead  for  her, 
And  make  me  think  her  charming  ruse,  la  haute' ecob' 

du  coeur. 
I've  sold    her  all   my  footsteps,  and  the  secret  of  her 

spell 
She   closes    with   her   eyelids,    and    surrounds    it   with 

her  smile. 

Meme  mon  salut  eternel  at  her  proud  feet  is  lain, 
I  know  'tis  but  Eternity  can  give  it  back   again. 
Sweet  poisons  scent  her  ambient  tress,   her  sighs,  her 

witching  web, 
And  the  flood  whirls  on  the  flow'rs  ill  they're  stranded 

at  the  ebb — 


48  A   WARM  NOVEMBER   DAY. 

No  !  lift  no  eyes   that  speak   so  much  !    asking  up  to 

me, 
Who  would  not  dare  to  kiss  your  hand  e'en  on  bended 

knee  ; 
But  I  wring  my  hands  and   look  to  you,  like  sinners 

out  of  Hell, 
For  you've  raised  my  soul  sufficiently  to  say  to  you — 

farewell  ! 


A   WARM  NOVEMBER  DAY. 

Tuilleries  Gardens. 

AYE  !  when  it  is  fine  in  November, 
All  Summer  seems  coming  again, 

And  the  lips  that  we  love  and  remember 
Seem  to  kiss  us  for  joy — and  for  pain. 

But  pain,  0,  sweet  with  emotion, 

And  sunshine  so  brimful  of  words, 

It  could  give  the  wild  waves  of  mid-ocean, 
The  voice  in  the  breasts  of  the  birds 

Aye  !  when  it  is  bright  in  November, 
I  see  thee,  adore  thee, — with  pain  ; 

Like  the  sun  that  alights  on  an  ember, 
And  burns  it  to  glory  again. 


FAIR  AMSTEL.  51 

For  thine  will  the  first  of  all  faces, 

To  come  in  the  manifold  years, 
Like  the  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  places 

That  angels  have  watered  with  tears. 


FAIR  AMSTEL. 

The  River  of  Amsterdam. 

SWEET  Amstel  though  I  sing,  the  song  is  thine, 
For  I  but  give  thee  back  thine  own  words  hid 
Within  thy  bosom,  while  with  queenly  pace 
And  pause,  like  some  fair  vestal's  footstep  slow, 
Thou  near'st  the  sea  thy  sons  have  swayed  so  long. 
A  babbling  brooklet  on  the  lee  makes  more 
Ado  than  thou  on  whose  broad  breast,  as  kind 
As  sleep  in  gentle  Summer  air,  have  passed 
The  riches  of  the  East,  and  sea-gulls  rest 
Their  weary  wings  with  me,  a  wanderer  too. 
Thy  lands  taught  Peter  to  be  Great,  and  all 
Thy  people  courtesy.     In  sooth  thy  tongue 
Seems  tuned  alone  to  tell  the  idyll  fair 
That  surely  sits  on  every  maiden's  brow, 
As  on  thy  fields  the  raiment  of  content. 


5  A   LOST  SOUL. 

Aye  i  let  none  other  call  the  cattle  home, 
But  make  "  Je  maintiendrai,"  "  J'ai  maintenu  P 
And  that  shall  tell  the  Teuton  and  the  Gaul 
In  accents  bold  well  earned  in  wars.     That  e'e» 
In  peace  you  still  invade  the  very  sea, 
And  bid  the  Ocean  pause  !  .  .  And  yet  although 
In  Chatham  with  your  sword  you  thrust  us  far 
More  deep  than  all  ;  now,  that  regained,  I  swear 
Within  our  hearts  you  pierce  us  deeper  still 
With  all  your  winning  ways. 


A  LOST  SOUL. 


So  Jong  ago  we  do  not  know, 

But  either  he  or  she  died  unshriven* 


WHAT  matters  it  that  one  life  be  lost  ? 
That  overcast  with  tears, 

And  tempest-tost 
It  fall,  through  endless  years, 

And  flicker  out  and  die, 

Like  one  more  day  from  out  the  sky. 


mmm  anmmmm  m  •  ,  .  -.      ,  w  .,..  .,,,. ,:. 


flJUVBRSITY 


A  LOST  SOUL.  55 

What  matters  it? 

If  one  great  grief 

Or  sweet  belief, 
Remorseless  shatters  it, 
Relentless  scatters  it 

Yertiginous  through  space. 

And  there,  with  its  wrecked  sweet  face 
Cast  down,  like  some  drooped  rose, 
Fleeter  than  April  rain  it  goes, 
Painfully  its  dead  blush  veiling, 

Through  the  endless  spheres  'tis  sailing, 

Down  from  its  high,  bright  pedestal  in  air 
To  unvoiced  depths  of  great  despair. 
What  matters  it? 

Yet  doth  it  fade  without  one  word 
Said  aloud,  like  some  pink  cloud 

From  out  the  fair 
Unfurrowed  face  of  Heaven 
Some  still  even, — 

And  leaving  there, 
No  !  naught  recorded  ? — 
Naught  save  the  unclouded, 

Unfurrowed  face  of  Heaven, 

Just  as  even 
And  as  fair. 


56  A   LOST  SOUL. 

No  spell  broken, 
No  weird  token, 

Strange  and  mute  and  faint  and  undefined, 
To  the  wordless  reapers  of  the  wind, 

Speaking  o'er  earth  of  her.      Forgot. 
In  some  strange  tongue  earth  knoweth  not 
None  here  praying 

Or  interceding  : 
On  earth  to  others  pleading, 
By  just  saying  : 

"You  never  knew, 
The  devil  tempt  you  : 
Placing  eternity 
Slyly  and  furtively, 

Like  c,  watching  cheat, 
Against  some  sweet  infirmity, 

Twixt  pace    and    pause    of   your  unwayward 
feet." 


Naught  on  the  fair  unfurrowed  face  of  Heaven, 
Or  dome  on  dome  encircling  into  space,  that  even. — 
Deep  in  the  eternal  mystery 

Of  the  endless  air. 
Far  and  farther,  filmier  and  more  fair  j 


A  LOST  SOUL.  59 

Nothing  written  there, 
Not  even  one  lightning  thrill  or  momentary 

spot ; 

While  the  Past  saith  to  the  Is  to  be  : 
"It  matters  not !  ...  It  matters  not  i" 


60 


ANDREVUOLA. 

....  "And  thus,  Alastair,  severed  from  Andrevuola.  his  love, 
wandered  westward,  grieving  ever,  and  crossed  the  ocean,  and  one 
calm  Autumn  morning  reached  Niagara.  Through  the  wistful 
stillness  now  all  the  past  came  back."  .... 

Part  of  a  tale  improvised  by  the  author  for 
Lord  Beaconsfield. 

I  KNOW  ; — thou'rt  Autumn  ;  silent, — still, 

But  0  too  full  of  songs  that  fill 

My  soul  with  sighs,  and  make  me  hear 

Sweet  words  said  earlier  in  the  year. 

I  thrill  with  pain,  yet  seek  one  dear 

Lost,  loved  low  voice.     And  gone  hands  near 

My  yearning  hands,  with  one  more  tear 

Our  Summer  kne\v  not,  ling'ring  here, 

One  foot  on  earth  and  one  on  High, 

To  kiss  a  long,  long,  last  good-by, 
And  smile  across  the  hemisphere. 

I  kept  thee  from  me  till  to-day  ; 

And  hid  my  love  and  pain  ! — But  each  ray 
To-day  hath  such  a  wistful  glow, 
The  half-dead  flowers  do  not  know 


ANDREVUOLA.  61 

If  they're  to  fade,  or  once  more  blow. 

And  0  my  heart  will  overflow, 

And  beats  the  cruel  bars  1     Although 

Sometimes, — I  thought  thou  wert — who  knows?— 

As  hollow-bosomed  as  a  rose, 
But  what  of  that  ?     I  loved  thee  so  ! 

And  I  do  hope  that  where  thou  art, 
No  day  like  this  will  rouse  thy  heart,— 

Because  to-day  on  land  and  lee, 

The  cricket  trilleth,  and  the  bee 

Goes  once  more  forth  ;  and  leaf  and  tree 

Wave  once  again,  and  they  and  we 

Hold  out  our  arms,  and  long  to  see 

Some  far-off  land  that  is  to  be. 

And  all  whose  sorrows  sleep  will  wake 
And  feel  their  hearts  must  speak  or  break, 

And  this  will  make   thee  think  of  me. 

I  kept  thee  from  me  till  to-day, 
But  now  'tis  bright  as  'twas  in  May  j 

And  surely  once  my  heart  and  I 

May  speak  out  once  5  with  one  wild  cry. 

Of  all  its  tears,  ere  the  day  go  by, 

Just  cherisn  one,  till  we  know  why 


62  ANDREVUOLA. 

The  earth  hath  speech,  and  stars  on  high 

Look  down  on  us  so  mournfully. 

The  whole  wide  world  would  love  to-day  ! 
We  think  the  thoughts  no  words  can  say, 
No  wind  in  Heaven  drive  away, 

And  think  how  far  from  thee  am  I. 

I  kept  thee  from  me  ! — and  to-day 
Just  one  sweet  morn  will  come  and  say  : 
"Not  all  Niagara  with  its  roar 
Can  still  my  heart.     My  love  !  no  more 
Than  seas  can  part  us,  though  they  tore 
The  earth  in  twain."     Though  I  implore 
My  soul  to  stay,  'tween  shore  and  shore 
'Twill  waver  till  it  wanders  o'er. 

For  my  love's  secret  hymn  lies  furled 
In  each  dead  leaf  o'er  all  the  world  !— 
And  I  shall  see  thee  never  more  ! 

What  dost  thou  mean,  thou  "  Never  more  "? 

Dost  mean,  that  we  from  shore  to  shore 
In  myriad  worlds  we  see  in  dreams 
Shall  float,  and  seek,  and  find  no  gleams 
Of  hope  ?    No  sight,  of  her  who  seems 
~^n  earth  our  only  lite  ?     That  streams 


ANDEEVUOLA. 

Shall  pass  to  rivers  in  the  beams 

Of  future  suns  in  wild  extremes, 
Of  utmost  azure,  there  to  greet 
An  endless  sea  ? — But  to  thy  feet 

That  I  shall  come,  no    nevermore  ? 

That  not  in  all  the  countless  years, 
In  the  fastnesses  of  future  spheres 
Our  souls  shall  touch  ?     Like  some  great  bell 
Whose  sound  is  tolled, — 'tis  done  !     Not  hell 
Nor  Heaven  shall  hear  again.     None  tell 
The  words  that  far  too  sweetly  fell 
Upon  our  ears,  and  said  too  well 
The  love  they  sealed  in  one  farewell. 
And  not  in  all  the  endless  space, 
My  face  shall  ever  meet  thy  face, 
Nor  pass  the  place  where  it  shall  dwell. 

That  all  our  love  shall  be    as  naught  .  . 

My  brain  goes  reeling  with  the  thought  !- 
In  mighty,  far-off,  filmy  skies, 
Fair  clouds  will  roll  ; — and  red  suns  rise 
To  glow  new  morns,  whose  radiant  eyes 
Will  melt  at  eve.     Sweet  majesties 
And  angels  in  grnnd  galaxys 


64  ANDREVUOLA. 

Will  crowd  the  seventh  Paradise. 

And  no  great  tide,  no  heavenly  sea, 
Will  ever  float  thee  near  to  me, 

Through  all  the  vast  eternities  !  ! 


65 


UNE  FETE  SANS  ELLE. 


A  LA  DUCHESS  DE  V . 

HIER  soir  chez  un  seigneur  tout  Paris  en  nombre 
Fut  reuni  par  lui  pour  un  joyeux  repas  ; 

Mais  moi  je  vous  cherchais,  me  refoulant  dans  1'ombre. 
Car  je  sentais  bientot  que  YOUS  n'en  etiez  pas. 

Oui.  d'autres  ont  aussi  les  couleurs  de  1'aurore, 

Un  sourire  enchanteur,  un  rayon  triste  et  doux  : 

Vous  avez  tout  cela  ;  mais  voua  avez  encore 

Un    charme   plus   puissant   qui  n'appartient   qu'a 
vous. 

Yous  avez  cette  grace,  d'un  naif  ineffable, 

Et  que  possede  seul  le  parfum  d'une  fleur. 

Votre  regard  est  doux,  et  sa  puissance  aiiuable 
De  voile  les  tresors  que  cache  votre  coenr. 


66  UNE  FETE  SANS  ELLE. 

Ah  !  que  n'etiez-vous  la,  quand  j'errais  en  delire 

Et  que  mon  ame,  helas  !  epuisait  sa  douleur  ! 
Mais  vous  ne  savez  pas  jusqu'ou  va  votre  empire  : 

J'ai    peur    de   mon    amour,  j'ai   peur   de   vous — 
J'ai  peur  I 

*  *  #  *  * 

Car  il  suffit  pour  me  desarmer 

D'un  seul  baiser  de  tes  levres  en  flamme, 

Ton  ame  a  pris  toute  mon  ame 
Je  t'aime  et  ne  veux  que  t'aimer. 


67 


THE  CHOICE  OF  ARMS. 
BIARRITZ. 

The  choice  of  arms  is  given  to  the  one  insulted  or  injured. 

COLONNA. 

A  Paraphrased  Sketch  of  a  Poem,  originally  written  in  French  ~by 
the  Author  for  Recitation. 


I  stand  before  the  judgment  throne  of  Heaven, 
'Mid  rays  of  angels  glowed  in  strange  white 
Beyond.     Erect,,  and  fearing  les*,  O  God, 
Thy  wrath  than  Thy  great  love  !  I  tell  the  taie 
Beneath  Us  record  held  'tween  Heavenly  wings. 


They  told  me  Maud,  my  Love,  my  Maud,  was  false. 
I  thought  it  once  ;  since  Love  and  Fear  are  twins  ; 
And  yet  one  word  from,  her,  one  soft  pained  look 
On  my  transcendent  agony  healed  all. 
It  is  so  sweet  to  trust  the  lips  we  love. 

But  I  met  him  who  wrought  the  ill.     His  eyes 
Met  mine.     He  knew  their  tiger's  turn  ; 
Saw  me  impelled  towards   him  sideways  like  a  cat, 
And  squared  his  well-knit   frame  right  skillfully 


68'  THE    CHOICE   OF  AEMS. 

To  stop  my  hand.     It  wodld  have  bitten  tight, 

And  held  like  leopard's  teeth. — I  stopped  my  rush  I 

Near  fell  in  staying  it  !  held  by  the  thought 

That  Maud's  fair  name  and  fame    must  not  flash  out 

Between  our  meeting  swords.     He  also  saw 

I  would  have  hurled  him  from  the  jetty  there,. 

And  gone  with   him  straight  down  and   through  the 

sea 

That  raved  like  burning  fringe  of  hell.     Aye  !  on 
To  hell  itself,  till  there  my  claw  burned  off 
His  throat.     But  then  he  knew,  before  the  world, 
I  must  find  pretext  foreign  to  her  name. 
This  saved  him.   Then  he  planned  it  quick.  .  .We  both 
Were  skilled  in  arms,  but  he,  renowned  for  fence, 
Well  knew,  Varme  blanche  was  rarely  to  my  hand 
Of  late.     So  when  the  pretext  came,  too  soon 
For    thought,   and   stung    my   strained    and   pregnant 

skin  ; 

Out  flew  ray  "blow  and  down  he  went,  and  thus 
Made  me  aggressor,  leaving  him  to  choose 
For  swords,  and  though  he  knew  me  wounded  twice 
With  these,  and  knew  my  prior  cause  to  make 
Demur,  he  felt  that  I  would  fight  this  night 
With  earthquakes  like  the  gods,  or  throw  the  dice 


THE    CHOICE    OF  ARMS.  69 

For  my  own  mother's  soul.     And  so  he  gained 
And  chose,  though  he  first  having  wrought  the  ill 
About  her  name,  the  choice  of  arms  by  right 
Was  mine. 

Well  !     He  was  first  upon  the  ground. 
Stalwart,  fierce,  and  pale,  in  the  uncanny  light 
Of  dawn.     No  sweet  and  heavy  southern  sun 
Peeped  slily  t'ward  the  glamoured  crescent  faint 
In  Eastern  spheres  ;  but  he  stood  like  some  great  ghost, 
The  youth  all  faded  from  his  face  as  hath 
The  green  from  Autumn  leaves. 

The  night  below 

Rolled  sulkily  away,  ashamed  to  shew 
•Such  sodden  sky  with  one  red  stain  across 
For  morning. 

Ominously  I  felt  the  knife, 

With  which  my  second  clipped  my  shirt-sleeve   round, 
Had  slipped  and  cut  my  arm.     And  so  I  held 
My  rapier  crosswise  just  a  moment  up 
Against  the  storm  cloud  couchant  in  the  wind 
Before  we  made  salute.     I  knew  full  well 
His    steel's   strong    clink  meant   more   than  skill,  but 

dared 
The  death.     1  liked  the  weighting  of  my  blade, 


70  THE    CHOICE    OF  ARMS. 

And  taste  the  breath  of  the  affected  calm 

Of  that  first  courtly  altercation. 

When  each  man  measures  each,  and  but  an  inch 

Would  end  the  pointed  courtesy.      His  choice 

Was  right,  and  nerved  his  arm.     A  good  square  foot 

Must  measure  all  my  fleury's  deviation 

For  my  guard  ;  till  "fiinte  en  tierce  degagement  leste 

En  quarte  "  might  give  me  one  small  chance  for  life. 

Straight  for  my  heart  he  went.     At  each  risposte 
He  pressed  me  harder  still.     I  still  fought  on, 
Although  he  saw  how  spent  I  grew.     So  faint 
Each  fresh  assault  her  face  came  in  a  dream. — 
Crash  burst  the  thunder  and  the  flash.     And  rain 
And   tears    almost  seemed    mixed   with   drops   which 

streamed 

From  both  our  brows.    Straining,  though  all  but  killed, 
And  harder  pressed  :  I  seemed  to  draw  in  dreams 
Her  features  fair  with  each  cramped  guard  against 
The  insolence  of  that  white  tongue  of  fire, 
That  ever  darted  at  my  face  and  breast 
As  though  the  devil  laughed  above  the  storm. 

At  last  a  pause. — 'Twas  well  :  for  my  breath  passed 
At  most  my  throat.  "  On  guard  !"   Again.   This  time 


TEE    CHOICE    OF  ARMS.  71 

On  guard  for  death.     la  the  storm's  dim  wicked  light 

I  swear  his  sword  dipt  mine  before  the  word. 

'Twas  worse  than  foul,  his  "  coup  de  temps  " 

Too  swift  !     So  faint  was  I  that  in  a  fiash 

They  saw  his  point  appear  right  through  my  shirt. 

"  He's  killed  !"  they  cried.    "  Aye  !  killed  be  damned  !" 

cried  I  : 

And  quick  ; — full  four  feet  back  ;  before  my  foe 
Recovered  half  a  span  (for  he   had  missed)  : 
With  "feinte  en  tierce  degagement  vite  en  quarte," 
With  crash  and  flash  as  though  all  Heaven  fell, 
I  felt  my  rapier  pierce  that  traitor  wrist 
And  iron  arm,  and  shoulder-blade.     And  flung 
It  to  the  earth.     "  Saved,  saved  1"  my  second  cried, 
"En  quarte  basse  !" * 

Yes,  saved  !  And  now  they  say, 
He's  dying,  may  be  dead. — More  blest  than  I 
He  lies  all  shriven  in  his  chambers  grand, 
Alight  with  mystic  flames  of  gentle  rite 
About  his  head.     The  anthem  for  his  soul 


*  The  words  "En  quarte  basse,"  which  are,  perhaps,  too  tech- 
nical for  recitation,  may  ~be  changed  to  the  words  "And  crossed 
the  ground  "  for  those  amongst  an  audience  who  are  not  adepts 
in  fencing. 


ffKIVBESITY 


72  THE    CHOICE   OF  ARMS. 

All  faintly  floating  round.     And  she  who  loves 
The  well-knit  Count  forgives  him  all  his  faults, 
I  too  ;  except  his  rest,  and  that  he  fenced 
So  ill— he  missed  my  heart  :  For  I  am  sick 
Of  all  the  gaping  world's  afflictive  crew, 
And  sooner  far  were  on  that  road  to  rest 
With  her  I  love  to  smooth  my  closing  eyes. 


73 


DUE  ANTE  LA  VALSA. 

(Andante.) 

0  STRIVE  to  keep  silent,  my  breaking  heart, 

And  keep  back  your  tears  if  you  can  ; 
She  will  see,  as  we  dance  and  we  laugh,  that  thou  art 

But  the  pulse  of  a  dying  man. 
My  spirit,  my  sonl,  0  let  her  not  see, 

Are  hung  in  a  look,  in  a  sound — • 
That  her  silvery  smiles  are  passing  through  me 

Near  by  as  she  gives  them  around. 

Yet  maybe  she  knows 

My  heart  was  the  rose 
That  now  in  her  bosom  is  lain  : 

Each  scent  that  it  gives 
Is  a  life  in  its  leaves, 

That  never  will  open  again. 


74  DUE  ANTE  LA  VALSA. 

(Piano.) 
She'll  hear  all  my  words  you  murmur  so  low 

0  monodies  maddening  sweet ; 
I  shall  faint  with  her  form  in  my  arms  as  ye  flow, 

And  die  of  my  love  at  her  feet. 
Yes,  die  with  my  love  untold  on  my  lips, 

Yet  press  her  but  once  to  my  breast, 
In  the  light  and  perfume,  till  the  melody  steeps 

My  life  in  its  languorous  rest. 

For  she  knows,  she  knows 

My  heart  was  the  rose 
She  chose  from  the  tree  to  be  slain. 

Each  breath  it  receives 
Is  a  death  in  its  leaves, 

That  never  will  blossom  again. 

*  *  *  *  * 

(Diminuendo.) 
She  knows  that  my  heart's  last  fibres 

In  her  gaze  are  giving  way, 
Like  the  pent-up  soul  of  Winter 

At  the  trembling  breath  of  May  ; 
Like  the  sicklied  hue  of  heaven 

At  the  kindling  kiss  of  day, 


75 


THREE  MARBLE  STEPS. 

Come  cTautunno  si  levan  le 
foglie, 
L'una  appresso  dell  'altra,  infin 

die  Tramo, 

Rende  alia  terra  tutte  sue 
spoglie. 
DANTE. 

IF  they  should  come  to  thee,  those  gentler  tears 

Our  memory  holds  to  keep  the  old  days  green, 
And  our  first  kisses,  through  the  empty  years, — 
Remember  when  these  lips  are  dead, 
Full  tenfold  more  than  the  love  they  said, 
Burned  in  the  heart  that  fed  and  died 

On  the  gentle  sweet  curse  they  placed  therein. 
There's  one  wish  left  of  the  threnody 
And  tender  dream-like  devilry. 
A  wish — a  weird  travail  of  bitterest  woe. 
That  near  one  door  of  the  palace,  where  thou 

And  the  courtiers'  ladies  often  would  come, 
Should  be  three  marble  steps.     And  that  I, 
All  shriven  for  rest,  aye  rest  1  as  I  lie, 

With  my  songs  for  pillow,  might  know  my  form 


76  THREE  MARBLE  STEPS. 

By  that  Eastern  avatar  after  death, 

Would  change  into  them,  as  I  sleep  beneath. — 

Sweet  death  can  much  that  life  cannot, 

And  thou  would'st  be  often  there  near  the  spot  • 

And  I  would  be, 
Three  marble  steps,  just  made  for  thee. 

Three  marble  steps  in  the  morning  light  : 
The  first  the  pale  rose  of  pink  roses  • 

And  one  as  pale  as  the  flight 
Of  the  rose  from  the  brow  of  a  maiden 

At  touch  of  love,  and  as  white. 
And  one  as  pure  as  the  passionate 
Azure  and  pearl  of  the  night. 

Three  marble  steps,  there  in  my  own  trance, 

In  that  mignon  palace  where  that  shattered  lance 

Which  3'ou  and  I  remember  is  ranged  among  the 
rest, 

His    who  rode    so  woudlv  for  that  favour  in  his 
crest. 

Three  marble  steps  for  love  ; 
Like  love,  too  sweet  and  smooth  above 
For  the  bitter  hid  below  ; 


TEHEE  MARBLE  STEPS.  77 

Just  placed  where  you,  half  dreaming  still 

From  having  slept, 
Might  stray  toward  the   terrace  at  your  will  : 

And  though  you  stept 
As  light  as  leaves  in  Yalomhrosa,  I  should  know 

Whene'er  the  little  feet  would  come  and  go, 

Or  pause  in  flitting  to  and  fro. 

Three  marble  steps.     And  I  would  be 

Between  the  north  towers'  majesty 

And  the  grand  terrace,  placed  just  where 

The  peacocks  come  above  the  lawn, 

Where  the  knights  come  courting  the  ladies  there, 

And  the  black  thrush  trims  his  wing  at  dawn. 
I  too  would  wake  beneath   the  sweet 

Soft  sound  of  a  rondel  of  Vaucluse, 

And  gentle  press  of  the  dainty  feet, 

That  fretfully  patter  their  dainty  shoes. 

Three  marble  steps  :  where  the  noon  all  gay, 
With  the  butterfly's  phantom  shadow  would  play, 
On  the  broad  warm  beam  of  a  midsummer's  day. 
And  where,  perchance,  if  a  flower  should  grow, 
They  might  heed  it  not,  but  leave  it  to  blow 


78  THREE   MARBLE  STEPS. 

Just  for  a  season,  until  in  the  snow 

The  three  marble  steps  in  the  drift  and  sleet 
Are  chilled  in  the  chime  of  a  New  Year's  eve  • 
With  the  lovers  so  long  in  taking  their  leave, 

That  they  cover  my  heart  with  the  prints  of  their 
feet. 

Three  marble  steps.     With  the  golden  day 

Faint  in  the  breath  of  the  vespers  ;  floating  away, 

'Mid  aves  and  hymns  and  the  blest 

Hid  bells  of  anthems  :   filling  the  air 
With  a  fugitive  music,  the  songs  that  give  rest : 

With  the  pulse  of  life  lulling  its  throb  with  prayer. 

Three  marble  steps  later,  with  night  in  the  spell, 
Lagging  in  cloudland,  pausing  in  air, 

Weaving  white  webs  in  her  chariot  wheel, 
And  telling  her  stories  to  listeners  there. 
Thou,  too,  at  thy  threshold  might  enter  not 

But  linger  there  likewise — hallow  the  spot 

Where    the    moonlight    could     trace    thee    my    form 
as  I  lie 

At  thy  feet  :  with  my  soul  drawn  down  from  the  skv, 
Or  in  dew  across  fairy  lawns  tree  unto  tree 
Could  weave  my  dead  spirit  in  silver  for  thee. 


THREE  MARBLE  STEPS.  79 

Aye,  then  I  could  feel — I  know  I  could  feel — 
Your  white  fingers  coming  ;   should  they  once  steal 

Toward  my  dead  heart   that  would   quicken  and 

glow, 

Should  you  bend  down  to  the  three  marble  steps, 
And  take  your  dear  name  from  off  my  white  lips, 

And  write  it  for  once  on  my  brow, 


80 


DAILY  BEE  AD. 

Panem  nostrum  super stantialem  da  nobts  hodie. 

ST.  JEBOME. 
AND  thus  do  many  to  live  and  eat, 

Men  garnering  crime,  as  we  gather  in  wheat. 

They  clamour  to  kiss  the  foulest  of  feet, 

They  have  made  their  shirts  of  a  dead  man's  sheet, 

And  slandered  the  corpse  as  they  fled. 
Flourished  their  pharisee's  canting  and  cry, 
Fattened  with  priests  on  the  God  they  belie, 
Fawned  to  the  vice  of  the  rich  or  the  high, 
Foisted  their  daughters  on  whoso  will  buy, 

And  gained  but  a  bare  daily  bread. 

A  woman  dead  ?  ? — With  the  law  for  the  poor  ? 
What,  stiffened  and  propped  up  against  the  door? 
Her  eyes  on  the  infant  her  head  hangs  o'er? 
The  stain  of  her  tears  on  its  pinafore  ? 

Her  arms  still  clinging, — dead  ? 
Has  fervid  mauve  and  rich  crisp  lawn 
Passed  and  passed,  and  not  heard  her  moan 


DAILY   BREAD.  81 

For  grief's  bare  durance,  food  alone  ? 
O,  food  to  give  her  little  one  ! 

A  mother's  cry  for  bread  1 

Mines  of  misery  lie  untold 
Of  withered  souls  whose  sighs  were  gold, 
Who  sang  of  love  and  died  of  cold 
With  rich-clothed  thoughts  ;  whose  clothing  told 
The  dirge  of  hunger's  dread  : 

Whose  inspiration's  brightest  heat, 
And  soaring  dreams  that  sang  so  sweet, 
Like  wounded  birds  dropped  down  to  greet 
Grim  fears  of  having  bread  to  eat  — 
O  !  horrid  daily  bread  ! 

Yet  songs  in  proud  enchanting  strain 
Still  upward  rise  from  beds  of  pain, 
And  cruel  jests,  against  the  grain, 
Like  drunken  grief  that  reels  again. 

Can  grim  grotesque  exceed 
The  painter  rising  from  his  dream 
Of  fruitful  vale,  and  laughing  stream, 
Whose  brush  would  now  revive  some  gleam 
Of  boyhood's  dawn— without  a  beam 

Of  hope  for  daily  bread  ? 


82  DAILY   BEE  AD. 

A  blackness  shrouds  the  flood,  the  bark, 
And  all  the  frozen  city  stark, 
While  voiceless  steps  infest  the  dark, 
Hail  !  now  start  up  in  bed,  and  hark  ! 

That  angry  stealthy  tread  ! 
The  phantom  "Want/'  whose  touch  is  blight, 
She  stalks  the  cursed  streets  to-night, 
And  claps  her  wings  in  haggard  fright, 
And  shrieks,  with  all  her  hoarded  might, 

A  haunting  cry  for  bread  ! 

Who  passes  on  the  midnight  tide  ?  * 
That  seems  with  gloaming  ghosts  allied, 
And  peers  through  fog,  as  though  he  spied 
For  one  that  doth  too  deeply  hide  ? 
The  fisher  of  the  dead  1 

Too  often  is  his  labour  crowned  : 
All  night  for  bread  they're  found  and  drowned 
With  bread,  and  Death  his  boat  swings  round, 
His  children  yearn  for  corpses  owned  : 

For  they  are  "daily   bread." 


*  Charles  Dickens  frequently  refers  to  this  ghastly  catting  of 
seeking  by  night  on  the  Thames  for  the  river's  dead. 


DAILY   BEE  AD.  83 

Near !  in  the  gas,  lost  women  crowd, 
With  reeking  jokes  and  laughter  loud. 
Leaping  and  dancing  on  the  shroud 
That  Death  is  spreading  sly  and  proud, 
Beneath  the  loathsome  bed. 

Aye  I  drug  the  cup  that  else  would  craze, 
The  fulsome  breath,  the  poisoned  praise, 
The  sickening  kiss  of  him  who  pays 
Then  Hell  itself  unveils  and  says, 

Ha  1  ha  !  I'm  daily  bread  1  ! 


A  DREAM-PICTURE. 

I  LIVED  with  my  love  in  the  cities  that  lie- 
in  a  cloud  above  all  these  clouds  in  the  sky. 
In  a  dream  above  all  our  dreams.     Melody 
And  God's  unseen  banners,  with  their  Eastern  dye, 
Sank  round  great  hanging  domes  ;  till  veined  porphyry 
Was  opal  with  dawn  in  these  fields  on  high, 
Where  the  flowers  were  souls  of  old  songs  gone  by. 
And  hung  like  the  lilies  in  lakes,  just  below, 
The  crescent  moon  passed,  and  the  stars  seemed  to  flow 
To  a  music  of  kisses — kisses  whose  power 
Shall  make  all  Eternity  in  love  with  an  hour. 
And  we  sat  with  the  white  palace  portals  ajar, 
And  as  thence  I  looked  forth  I  could  see  so  far — 
Tor  ever  and  for  ever  1 


••85 


ASPETTANDO* 

SOSPIRANDO  ;  chieggo  in  van  o 

Fra  i  mortali  il  bene  amato  : 

Mel  rapiva  iogiusto  fato 
Ai  trasporti  dell'  amor. 

-Ed  ahime,  son  sempre  solo, 

Langue  Talma,  e  piange  il  cor  1 

Aspettando  vien   PAutunno 

Ed  il  crudo  verno  appresso  : 

Ahi  !  dal  duol  trafitto,  oppresso, 
Resto  al  pianto  in  abbandon — 

E  piangeudo  il  tempo  vola, 

Non  ritorua  ;  e  mesta  io  sonj 


*No.  6  of  the. Series  for  Music. 


86 


DRIFTING. 

"Les  souvenirs  sont  ecrits  dans  les  mers,  et 
la  maree  basse  ks  emporte  au  didble. 

I  READ  once  some  song,  writ  in  a  boat,  in  marvellous 
Soft  air  of  Naples.      Sweet   from   some    heart,  right 

glorious, 
Tuned  by  the  gentle  grape-flower  time,  when  in  loving 

Spring 

E'en  heaven  and  earth  touch  lips  for  very  joy,  and  sing. 
I  am  nearly  sure  they  naively  called  their  sweet  strain, 

"Drifting." 
They  were  four,  I  think,  for  some  half-day  their  eyes 

uplifting 
T'ward  too  sweet  Naples'  skies,  with   Ischia   and  the 

bay 

And  Capri : — capable  to  hold  them  half  a  day. 
They  were  sweet  singers  who    had  left   their  wonted 

thrift, 
And   for  one   noon   maybe   they  thought   they    were 

adrift, 


DRIFTING.  87 

Aye,  one  would  think — to  hear  them  apostroohize  their 

jaunt, 

They  drifted  ever,   from  Hades  to  the  Hellespont ; 
Although  they  know  the  waves  that  rock  them,  gently 

flowing, 
Will  take  them  quite  exactly  where  they  know  they're 

going. 
And  they  have  also  learnt  the  sea's  depth  under  them 

as  well, 
While  wantonly  they  "Dip  their  reckless  hands  within 

the  swell." 

Aye  ;  even  better  than  Vesuvian  boatmen  they  know 
The  specific  gravity  of  that  near-by  volcano  ; 
Until,  with  mellowing  shadows,  these  gentle  dilettanti 
Grow  quite  anticii  with  lagrima  and  chianti. 

Yes  !  Sail  on  ;  your  hands  within  the  swell,  one  day, 
And  call  it  "Drifting."  Ah  !  you  know  not  what  you 
say. 

You  take  the  first,  first  fragile  boat, 

And  drift  :  drift  rudderless  ;  afloat 

On  life's  mad  boiling  river, 

Be  it  Styx  or  Guadalquivir. 

Drift  first  wildly,  in  the  fashion      ^  ^ 

1£nw& 


88  DRIFTING. 

Of  youth's  imperious  passion. 

Heedless,  as  the  fairies  of  the  golden  bough. 

Blind  ;  with  unsung  songs  fretting  heart  and 

brow, 

Now  coursing  careless  and  intrepid 
Some  chaotic,  whirling  rapid, — 
And   floating  now  through   blossomed    intimate  sweet 

closes, 

With  the  spikenard,  sendaline,  terebinth,   and  roses, 
All  catching  perfumes  to-and-fro   beneath  the  trailing 

trees, 
Frail   and   fragrant   on    the   fluctuant   fluting    of  the 

breeze  ; 
With  that  sweet  queen   of  the   silver  bow. — Drifting 

through  the  place, 
While  the  blooms  are  falling  gently  on  your  lips  and 

face  : 

Until  some  tide  hath  caught  you,  and  an  Ocean 
Spreads  before  you.     Then,  heedless  if  the  motion 
"Be  held  by  hands  of  Heaven  or  Hell, 
You  dip  your  passioned  lips  into  the  swell. 
Dead,  from  having  lived  a  lifetime  in  an  hour. 
The  palace  of  some  glorious  error. 
Drinking  the  waves  with  their  hard  bitter  oower, 


DRIFTING.  89 

Till  seas  well  up  whose  nectar  is  of  tears  ; 

Evil  and  of  unquenehed  thirst,  through  endless  years. 

Then  still    drift — knowing  you   are   lost   from   having 

drifted. 

Lost  maybe  the  easier  from  being  over  gifted. 
Drowning  and  drifting  because  heaven's  blue 
Hath  over  much  inebriated  you. 

Living  and  loving  while  all  through  the  soul  of  France 
Christ   and    Sappho   and  Polichlnelle   wildly  lead  the 

dance. 
And  even   there, — true  to   some  Quixotic  unsaid  vow 

grown  old 

And  useless  as  the  poppies  in  the  field,  that  hold 
Their   heads    up    by   the  will    of   God    and   light   of 

heaven  alone, 
You  feel  your  soul  filled  with   the  daring  that  would 

bid  the  sun 
To   pause,  and    grasp   the  vast  charged   pendulum  of 

the   universe 

And  bid  it  stay. — Then  having  drank  all, — all  the  per- 
fumed curse, 
You  drift  alone,  with  troughs  of  sea  high  round  your 

little  boat, 
And  claws  of  twenty  winds  all  catching  at  your  throat. 


90  DRIFTING. 

Only  your  own  strong   arm   against    the  storm-built 

cloud, 
Yet  sending  up  a  glance  as  lurid  and  as  proud 

As  Heaven  to  Earth.     Enchanted  with  the  thrall, 
As  dark  as  Hecate's  bosom,  and  o'er  it  all 
E'en    Lesbos'  air   grown    salt    and   angry,    as  'twould 

divide 

Thetis  again,  and  whirl  her  God  once  more  beyond  the 
tide. 

Saying  of  prudence,  We  forget  it, 
If  it  lead  us  to  perdition,  let  it. 
Drift !     And  whate'er  there  be  to  win,  disdain  it, 
And  all  of  safe  and  sleek  reward  ;  disclaim  it. 
Drawn  past  Charybdis — on   to  STaxos  where  Ariadne 

wailing, 

Should  have  wrecked  the  heart  of  earth.     There  hail- 
ing 

The  soul  of  Musset  or  Theocritus,  and  all  the  lost. 
And  even  thent  nigh  drowned  and  tempest  tost, 
And  wrecked  and  wracked,  and  having  learnt  no  tamer 

thought, 
Nor  worldly  lesson  it  should  have  taught. 

You  have  kept  your  unchained  spirit  all  this  while 
So  gentle  that —  Stay  !     One  woman's  smile 


DRIFTING.  91 

Would   send    you   seeking    once    again   the    pure   no- 
blesse 

That  crowns  at  last  the  too  great  flow  of  wild  ivresse. 
Seeking  like  heedless  knights  the  grief  that  kills  some 

other, 

The  childless  father  of  the  orphan,  sorrow's  brother, 
And  with  some  long  sacrifice  uncomplaining, 
Gently,  proudly,  mutely  training 

Your  heart  t'ward  homelier  tides,  and  by  this  'haviour, 
Striving  to  near  the  best  of  all  the  lost — the  Saviour  ; 

Knowing having  dipped  your  hands  into  the  swell, 

That  though  the  whole  great  sea  rushed  up  and  fell 

In  one  great  wave  upon  you  from  above, 
It  could  not  wreck  you  half  so  deep  as  love  ; 
That   path    all   paved   with    cruel    crimson    prints   of 

piteous  feet, 

Which  fire  burns  behind  you,  hissing  with  the  gall  of 
things  too  sweet. 

And  so  drift  on,  my  soul,  and  quaff 

Whate'er  shall  fill  thy  chalice,  as  a  sacrament, 
Till  planets  crash,  and  earth,  and  half 

The  stars,  shall  drift  beyond  the  firmament. 


A  DREAM  IS  PASSING. 

For  Music. 

A  dream  is  passing, 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away? 

0  bend  your  nead,  and  veil  the  sigh 
That  floats  in  your  breath  as  it  passeth  by. 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither   away? 

My  love  lies  still  in  a  morning  beam, 
That  passes  the  garden  shade  and  her  dream. 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away  ? 

I  hid  me  near  in   the  trailing  trees, 
For  wooing  her  dream  from  the  wayward  breeze. 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away? 


A  DREAM  IS  PASSING.  93 

It  came  to  me  once  in  an  under-breath  ; 
But  left  me,  and  laid  me  alone  with  death. 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away? 

The  angels  slept  in  the  purple  clouds, 
That  go  on  their  journeys  in  joyful  crowds 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away  ? 

They  hailed  it  nearing  them  there  above, 
And  they  took  it  to  heart,  for  its  name  is  Love; 
Passing,  passing — 
Whither  away? 


94 


Pale  sits  the  lily,  and  on  her  brow  the  light 
The  queen  wears  'neath  the  silver  bow  of  night. 


THE  LILY  OF  AMSTEL-LAND.          95 

Pale  sits  the  lily,  and  reads  in  dreams  maybe, 
The  holy  page  the  night  hides  of  her  lore 
Among  her  robes,  and  lives  on  earth  no  more, 
Than  doth  the  light  of  some  soft  melody, 
Or  star  that  seeketh  foothold  in  the  sea. 

Like  a  bride  that  peereth  through  the  light  of  earth, 
To  find  some  gentle  dwelling-pUce  of  love, 
She  seems  ever  passing  white  realms  far  above 
This  dim  light  of  the  lily-bud  at  birth, 
Burning  high  and  burning  low  upon  the  earth. 


96 


VIOLETS  IN  LONDON  STREETS. 

Quid  non  cernit  amor! 
Quid  non  vestigal  amator  ! 
BEBOALD. 
NESTLING  in  the  hedges  shade 

They  grew, 
Just  where  on  the  green  'tis  laid, 

A  few, 
They'd  fill  the  air  about  the  stile, 

And  hide, 
And  wanderers  lingered  there  awhile 

And  sighed. 
*  *  *  *  # 

All  hustled  in  the  market-place, 

Bleak  the  morn 
The  widow  brought  them,  with  a  face 

Wan  and  woi 
The  passers  crowd  the  homeless  town 

Indifferent. 
She  never  smelt  them ;  up  and  down 

The  widow  went. 


VIOLETS  IN  LONDON  STREETS.         97 
Kound  lover's  heart  all  flowers  steal, 

Aye  I  they  know  how, 
So  often  they  are  sent  to  tell 

Their  tales  of  woe. 
A  lover  blind  as  lovers  are 

In  shadow-lands, 
Had  eyes  to  see   the  flowers  there. — 

With  tiny  hands 
Her  child  held  up  the  widow's  ware. 

The  lover  paid  her  well, 
And  struggling  through  her  face  of  care 

Came  such  a  wistful  smile. 
***** 

Some  angel  in  a  wandering  mood 

Had  dropped  the  seed  that  grew, 

To  bring  the  little  children  food, 
And  your  love's  thoughts  to  you. 


98 


AN  IMPROMPTU: 

After  the  Salt. 

SHE  gave  me  a  piece  of  her  mignonette, 
The  mignonette, 
Her  mignonette. 

Perhaps 'twas  to  tell  me  I  must  forget — 
Perhaps  that  although  we  had  hardly  met, 
Yes,  hardly  met, 
Aye,  hardly  met, 

That  slie  knew  how  sorrow  and  grief  and  care 
Lay  deep  underneath  my  worldly  air. 
That  she  knew, 
Aye,  she  knew 

My  heart  was  as  gentle  and  tender  and  true 
As  her  glance  that  had  looked  it  through  and  througn. 
But  whatever  it  was,  my  eyes  are  wet 


AN  IMPROMPTU.  101 

As  I  sit  alone  ;  and  the  mignonette 
T-s  here  in  my  band,  and  it  seems  as  though 
Some  angel  had  held  in   her  hand  just  now 
The  only  one  flower  I'd  like  to  wave 
Among  the  long  grasses  over  my  grave, 
For  the  lovers  to  pluck  as  a  talisman  sure, 
Since  once  it  had  lain  in   her  hand  as  pure 

As  the  fatally  sweet  mignonette. 

There's   a  "  Language   of  Flowers "  surely   true  as  it 

flows 

With  its  burden  of  love.     For  'twere  sin,  God  knows, 
To  be  placing  a  lie  in  the  lips  of  a  rose. 

But  there's  never  a  seer  who  could  understand 
The  rapt  world  of  meanings  or  sweet  command 
In  a  flower  hid  in  a  maiden's  hand, 
That  you  take  when  you  clasp  it  to  say  good-night, 
With  the  smallest  press,  and  a  searching  light 
Hung  in  her  eyes  like  the  silver  flight 
Of  a  falling  star  in  an  azure  sky, 
And  with  nothing  said,  not  even  a  sigh, 
And  only  the  faintest,  faintest  good-by — 

And  the  silently  sweet  mignonette. 


102 


ELLE   DIT  "NON." 

Audaces  forfana  juvat,  timidosque  repellat. 

JUVENAL. 
IL  faut  pourtant  qu'un  jour 

Mes  bras  ton  ccenr  enlacent, 
Et  que  de  mon  amour 

Les  doux  transports  t'embrassent 

Mon  etre  entier  frdmit 

Pres  de  la  bien-aimee. 
Et  tout  en  raoi  gemit 

Quand  elle  est  eloignee. 

J'ai  faim  d'un  seul  baiser, 

Bien  qne  mes  yeux  devorent. 
Sans  jamais  se  lasser, 

Tes  levres  qu'ils  adorent. 


ELLE  D1T  "NON."  103 

Mais  j'attends  que  tes  yeux  en  flamme 

Parlent  a  mon  coeur  dbloui 
De  1'amour  qui  briile  en  ton  £me. 

Ou  ce  "  Non  I"  est  un  "  Non >;  qui  dit : 
"  Oui  1" 


104 


A  CEY  OF  LOVE* 

"Et  la  jeune  Princesse,  pour  register  a  son 
amour  fatal,  s'enfuit  se  cachant  au  Con- 
vent de  Sorrento." 

— Grandes  Chroniques  de  France. 
I  CRIED  to  Love,  "  O  go  away  !'' 
And  then  one  little  sunny  ray 
Set  all  my  dreams  to  joy  again  ; 
I  love  the  more  the  more  the  pain, 
And  when  it  seems  'twould  go  away, 
I  strain  it  nearer  still  to  stay. 

A  hundred  times,  "  O  go,"  I  say, 
And  in  the  cloister  fall  and  pray  ; 
But  in  my  sleep  some  old  refrain 
Gets  tangled  in  my  life  again, 
That  when  I  wake  with  tears  I  know 
I  cannot,  cannot  let  thee  go  ! 

*Set  to  music  by  the  Author.    Published  by  Brentano,  New  York. 


A  CRY  OF  LOVE.  107 

Love  seems  too  great  for  earth  ;  the  strife 
Is  worse  than  death,  and  more  than  life. 
Arise  !  for  Love  comes  by,  and  pain 
Is  spangled  on  his  wings  and  train. 
He  touches  earth,  to  live  on  high  ; 
11 0  kiss  me  once  and  let  me  die  1" 


108 


THE  SONG  THEY  LEFT  ON  THE  TERRACE. 

SHE  is  more  loved  than  my  heart's  first  love, 

For  there  never  was  one  as  this  is  ; 
Her  breath  is  the  swerve  of  a  long  lemon  grove, 

And  her  mouth  is  the  gateway  of  kisses  ; 
Cold  lips  are  mute  and  pulses  flush, 

When  my  arm  round  her  loveliness  closes  ; 
The  scent  of  her  hair  is  the  soft-spoken  air 

That  has  opened  the  lingering  roses. 

The  night  moved  with  us  as  the  crescent  above 

In  the  midst  of  the  stars  ;  and  caresses 
Out-numbered  the  stars  that  it  passed  in  the  spheres 

To  the  innermost  Heaven's  recesses. 
And  the  words  that  we  wove  in  the  night-diadem 

Were  so  strange  in  their  accents  and  stresses, 
Till  the  violets  fell  in  the  roses  below, 

Swooned  in  worlds,  of  bashful  excesses. 


THE  SONG    THEY  LEFT  ON  THE      109 
TERRACE. 

Then  we  dived,  in  the  morn, 

In  the  stream  that  is  born 
In  the  mountain  of  sweet  water-courses  ; 

And  through  the  low  land 

We  rode  hand  in  hand, 
Straining  kisses  to  each  from  our  horses  ! 

And  then  noon  glowed  away 

In  a  trance  as  we  lay 
In  the  glade  that  the  shade  intersperses. 

Under  flowers  we  crept, 

And  in  odours  we  slept, 
Hidden  up  in  the  laurels  and  furzes* 

But  I  died  in  this  love, 

As  the  stars  fall  above, 
To  light  dead  lakes  of  the  spirit  ; 

And  our  souls  floating  even, 

Shall  repeat  it  in  heaven, 
Where  cherubims  cluster  to  hear  itc 


110 


ALT. 

For  Music. 

Gaudendum  cum  gaudentibus 
TACITUS. 

"  IF  the  key  is  in  the  door  "  :     She  said, 

Come  in, 
Come  in. 

She  blushed  as  she  whispered  it  low,  and  laid 
Her  white  little  hand  in  mine,  as  though 
'Twere  some  precious  thing  all  flower-like    made. 
To  set  the  wide  world's  heart  aglow. 

For   she  does  not  know  that  my  soul  lies  still 
As  a  child  in  her  presence  sweet. 

With  a  mystic  censer  to  guard  her  from  ill, 
My  spirit  lives  there  at  her  feet. 

If  the  key  is  in  the  door  :  she  said, 

Come  in, 
Come  in. 


ALY. 

But  I  brought  her  the  scents  from  the  cool  moonlight, 
And  the  sighs  she  hears  round  are  from  me. 

I  passed  the  chinks  of  the  portals  of  night, 
And  came  in  on  the  wind  from  the  sea. 

I'm  the  moth  that  flies  painfully  too  near  her  light, 

And  burn  all  to  hear  when  she  sings  ; 
And  I  catch  all  the  notes  from  her  lips  in  their  flight, 
And  bear  them  away  on  my  wings. 

Come  in, 
Come  in, 
If  the  key  is  in  the  door  :  she  said, 

Come  in, 
Come  in. 


TWO  FATES. 

For  Recitation. 

We  only  ask  for  love  to  give  it  back. 

THIS  is  a  story  of  strange  *me  love  ; 

The  gentle  sway  whose  pleasure  is  to  yield. 

How  tell  the  tale  ? — how  fair  she  was  and  fal«e. 
****** 

Her  lover  then,  when  I  was  brought  to  her, 

Loved  her  as  the  hour  loves  some  melody, 

On  which  it  slips  away  and  dies.     He  felt 

A  strange  dark  instinct — realized.     She  left  him  • 

Loved  me  ;   until  I  too  in  time  was  left. 

She  hoped  then  I  would  turn  on  her  in  wrath. 

Alas,  I  had  but  words  to  say  how  fair 

Her  faults  were.     Bend  me  low,  and  pass  to  grief, 
****** 

With  power  to  make  men  felons,  gods  or  mad, 
She  held  all  things  but  happiness.     There  hung 
An  evil  number  somewhere  in  the  stars 
About  her. 

Haply  there  "had"been  sword  play 


TWO  FAIES.  113 

At  first  between  her  former  love  and  me  : 

And  better  I  had  fallen.      But  he  passed 

From  sight  mysteriously,  weirdly  ;  none 

Knew  whither.     I  writhed  here  in  pain,  and,  quick 

With  life  to  feel  the  deathly  souvenir, 

Hating  and  loving  aught  that  brought  her  back, 

Lived  on,  and  smiled,  and  laughed — upon  my  sleeve, 

Above  the  parched  shades  and  ashes  cursed 

Of  half-spent  hells  of  ruined  passion. 

We  have  all  some  phrase  in  life  we  cannot  read 
Without  a  thrill  ;  and  so,  once  passing,  late 
For  some  May  fair  repast,  and  driving  through 
The  bye-streets  of  the  shorter  way,  wherein 
The  sounding  hoofs  of  high-bred  steeds  awoke 
Unwonted  clatter,  I  approached  a  knot 
Of  homely  folk  about  a  lonely  man. 

I  stopped — I  know  not  why — and  mixed  among 
The  loiterers  there.     "  He's  always  so,"  they  said, 
All  laughing.     'Twas  he.     Mad !     That  former  love 
Of  hers.     A  wise  no-meaning  look,  and  then 
A  second  heaven  lit  his  face,  a  weird 
Beatitude  ;  his  dress  unchosen  and  awry  ; 


114  TWO  FATES. 

His  hand  to  his  head,  as  though  to  clutch  and  keep 
His  thoughts,  all  strewn  among  its  silken  snow. 
His  eye,  fixed  far  above  the  weary  brows 
Of  these  unkempt  waifs  of  the  outer  world, 
Shone  with  the  light '  that  never  was  on  earth 
Or  sea.'     His  lips  moving,  seemed  singing  things 
Unheard  of.     Calm,  peaceable,  heedless  and  mad. 

Singling  me — he  knew  not  why — "  There — !"  he  said, 
"  There  ;— there  !    See  her !    She  bids  me  come.  Her 

hands 

Are  held  to  me  ;  ner  wnite  enticing  hands. 
Her  eyes  rain  azure  love  through  each  dark  lash 
And  drop  their  kiss  on  me.     'Tis  too  much  bliss  : 
O  !  God— I'll  hold  my  spirit  still  lest  I 
Go  mad  ;  mad  ;  mad  ! — She  calms  me  now,  and  kneels 
By  me — a  queen  ! — an  angel  !     Hear  her  words  ! — 
No  I  not  words — music  ! — for  her  voice  is  song, 
Fear  not,  Marion — my  love  will  last  until 
The  end  !" 

The  night  grew  woven  fire.     1  fled, 
And  left  the  chafing  steeds  and  gaping  man 
To  drive  to — Paradise,  or  where  he  would. 
Home,  I  locked  me  in  the  inmost  chamber 


TWO  FATES.  115 

Of  my  house.     O  !   then  to  have  wept.     But  no, 

My  homeless  eyes  were  hard  and  hollow — hot 

As  a  crater  \ — without  one  human  tear.     Dry 

As  a  Tuscan  river-bed  in  Summer. 

It  all  came  back,  my  hate  of  him  ;  my  love 

Of  her  ;  and  spilled  my  inmost  blood  again. 

At  last,  there  from  the  low  lit  niche  I  tore 

The  cross  that  bore  the  Saviour  down,  and  cursed 

My  brain.     And  would  have  beat  it  from  my  brow 

To  walk  with  him  there  hand-in-hand  all  night 

In  sorrow's  squalid    streets.     Had  he  not  all 

That  drink  can  give  ?  that  life  can  give  ?  and  love  ? 

MADNESS.  .  .  Then  I  prayed  ;  prayed  like  the  damned 

man, 

For  whom  all  night  they  build  a  gallows  tree. 
Prayed  that  God  would  crush  my  haunting  cry 
From  out  my  prisoned  mind,  "  U  cannot  be.'' 
Until  these  mocking  skies  are  broken  through 
And  show  that  this  life  is  the  dream,  and  his, 
The  madman's  rave,  ALL  that  is  reality  : — 
And  that  ivhich  is  to  be! 


JNI7BRSIT7 


116 


"A   WORD  OF  TROTH." 

For  Music. 

11 Amor  et  melle  et  felle  est  fecundissimus." 

WOULD  you  go,  without  one  little  vow, 

Would  you  leave  without  one  little  word, 

That  would  make  Heaven's  altars  to  glow, 
And  an  angel  to  write  what  he  heard  ? 

Not  a  word  I  could  whisper  through  nights 

Full  of  tears  that  will  come  when  we  part, 

*n  the  sweet  Summer  shadows  and  lights 

While  the  Summer  is  breaking  my  heart 

Not  a  word  I  can  answer  the  breeze 

When  it  thrills  me  to  death  with  thy  name  j 

And  can  tell  to  the  leaves  on  the  trees 

How  it  trembled  like  them  when  it  came. 

Not  a  word  I  could  beg  them  to  write 
On  the  stone  they  will  lay  over  me, 

Just  to  tell  how  a  wee  little  while 

It  had  linked  me  to  Heaven  and  thee- 


UNIVERSITY 


119 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTE. 
REF.  :  Page  VI.,  Preface  of  Illustrated  Edit'  n. 

Reference  having  been  made  in  the  present  edition  to  the 
pamphlet  of  "Press  Opinions,"  a  portion  of  a  collection  of 
abridged  paragraphs  —  compiled  for  L  'Association  Litteraire- 
Internationale,  of  Paris,  by  the  British  Delegate,  for  literary 
controversy  —  showing  the  similarity  of  the  international 
opinion  in  Europe  and  America  on  certain  characteristics  of 
the  poems,  is  subjoined  to  the  present  volume,  with  their 
dates.—  ED. 


"  Court  Journal  ,"  London,  August  4th,  1877. 

He  either  treats  strong  passions  and  strong  situations- 
grandly  and  powerfully,  or  glides  softly  through  a  tender 
love  tale,  and  touches  our  .inmost  hearts. 

"Morning  Post,"  London,  August  27th,  1877. 
Elegance,  tenderness,  pathos  and  power. 


"  The  Mail"  Weekly  Edition  of  "  The  Times"  London, 
September  25th,  1877. 

Perfect  in  form  and  charming  in  tone. 

"Boston  Evening  Transcript,"  1884. 
A  European  reputation  as  a  poet  and  painter. 

"Examiner"  September  1st,  1877. 
A  mastery  of  English  measure. 

"  The  Graphic"  London,  December  22d,  1879. 

Pathos  and  passion  permeate  these  songs  of  love  an& 
chivalry  .  .  .  Tragically  passionate,  his  pictures  of  love 
and  life  are  painted  in  with  powerful  strokes,  but  their 
almost  painful  beauty  is  never  marred  by  a  coarse  touch. 

His  verse  is  alight  with  love,  but  it  is  clean  fire. 

Essentially  human,  they  are  so  full  of  music  and  manly 
sentiment  that  only  a  prurient  mind  could  disapprove  of 
them. 


120  PRESS  OPINIONS. 

"The  Court  Circular,"  London,  December  1st,  1877. 

Highest  elegance  of  versification  and  tenderness  of  senti- 
ment. 

"Revue  Britannique,"  Paris, 

The  poems  have  a  character  perfectly  Dantesque. 

Lord  Bcaconsfield,  1878. 

One  of  the  most  charming  collection  of  poems  I  have  ever 
read.  "La  Legende  de  Leu ville,"  translated  into  French, 
would  make  a  most  picturesque  and  dramatic  recitation. 

"Figaro,"  Paris. 
We  (France)  should  be  proud  of  them. 

"  Wtiitehall  Review"  London,  1879. 

One  can  imagine  some  bibliophile  of  the  future  thumbing 
his  graceful  books  and  re-editing  them  as  the  most  apt  ex- 
pression of  the  poetry  of  these  days.  We  have  no  sympathy 
with  those  sciolists  who  have  innocently,  if  not  ignorantly, 
aimed  their  shafts  at  him,  and  he  has  suffered  a  perfect  mar- 
tyrdom of  j><f('t<x*<x  at  their  hands.  .  .  .  Especially  a  brim- 
ming over  of  a  certain  deep  melancholy  and  flashing  memories 
of  a  dare-devil  but  craving  life,  while  he  bears  tlie  stiff  ma  fn, 
of  more  than  one  great  grief.  .  .  .  Let  this  ripen  in  his 
powerful  mind,  and  the  men  and  women  of  to-morrow  will 
bear  upon  them  the  impress  of  his  startling  yet  scholarly 
rhythm,  and  his  refined  talent  as  a  painter. 

Charles  Leland  (Hans  Brietmanu),  1879. 
Poetical  ideas  in  it  enough  for  twenty  books. 

Charles  Eeade,  1881. 

Fearless  original  and  eccentric.  Hans  Brietmann  is  right. 
His  work  contains  a  California  of  poetical  ideas  ...  He 
seems  to  taste  the  Oxford  "  cynico-epicurean  "  sense  of  every 
word,  though  he  is  more  a  painter  than  a  poet. 

"  Manchester  Courier,"  December  27th,  1880. 

The  best  living  specimen  of  a  combination  of  Count 
d'Orsay,  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Swinburne. 

"The  Aberdeen  Journal,"  September  1st,  1877. 

Sweet  poetic  thoughts  to  secure  a  place  far  up  the  British 
Parnassus.  Not  in  Browning  is  there  verse  finer  than 
"Fallen,  "nor  in  Hood  than  "Daily  Bread." 


PEESS   OPINIONS.  121 

Arsene  Houssaye,  late  Ministre  des  Arts,  Paris. 
A  poet  equal  to  Byron,  and  a  painter  like  Turner. 

"Le  Pays,"  Paris,  May  25th,  1883. 

He  could  be  a  Francis  I.,  a  Buckingham,  Lord  Byron, 
Richelieu,  Athos,  or  even  d'Artagnan. 

"La  Patrie"  Paris,  May  13th,  1883. 

An  apostle  of  the  truly  beautiful.  A  chief  of  the  true 
aesthetic  school  .  .  .  Has  fallen  into  the  error  of  not  wishing 
to  pander  to  the  exigencies  of  the  "Pschittt,"  the  fashionable 
tyrant  of  to-day,  and  is  immediately  bombarded  for  ever 
with  this  irksome  cognizance  of  "  eccentric"  and  "  original." 
In  fact  a  man  more  calumniated  hardly  exists. 

"May  Fair"  London,  July  24th,  1877. 

He  makes  us  look  to  our  national  laurels  and  bays  .  .  Has 
approved  himself  worthy  of  a  place  in  our  EnglisirPantheon. 
Poems  flushed  with  the  sunshine  of  the  South  :  but  that 
he  can  appreciate  the  colouring  and  melody  of  an  English 
Summer  day  is  well  shown  by  his  water-colour  drawings 
and  verses. 

"  Chicago  Times"  1884. 

A  man  of  broad  and  liberal  culture  and  wide  travel,  having 
crossed  the  desert,  North  Africa,  Spain,  and  part  of  the 
American  Continent,  and  enjoys  high  rank  as  a  poet  and 
painter.  .  .  .  Good  Greek  and  Latin  scholar.  "Entre-nous" 
has  in  it  poetical  ideas  enough  for  twenty  books. 

"  Albany  Journal"  U.  S.  A.,  March  17th,  1884. 

Rare  literary  ability  and  considerable  reputation  as  poet 
and  painter. 

"The  Morning  Post,"  London,  December  18th,  1877. 

Neither  studied  nor  conventional.  .  .  .  Thorough  capacity 
to  think  and  write  in  French  and  English. 

"The  Italic,"  Rome. 

A  contradistinction  of  all  those  books  that  only  appear 
to  die  ...  "The  Bay  of  Villafranca "  will  clothe  the 
thought  of  the  fisherman  of  that  enchanted  sea  many 
a  night  .  .  .  The  outpouring  of  a  heart  that  has  suffered, 

consoling  itself  by  helping   others "Aelia"   is  a 

romance,  a  gem  ;  a  perfect  fifteenth  century  scene. 

'  'L'  Opinione, "  Rome. 

Spontaneous,  flowing,  and  harmonious,  and  many  flowers 
gathered  from  our  Italian  soil. 


122  PRESS   OPINIONS. 

"  Gil  Bias,"  Paris,  April  16th,  1883. 

Chivalrous  ;  and  neither  maudlin  nor  feeble.  He  loves 
the  strong,  clear,  frank  laugh  that  is  manly  and  cheer- 
ing, and  a  love-song  sung  by  a  bold  cavalier  and  a  fear- 
less gentleman.  ...  A  litterateur  of  the  greatest  talent,  a 
painter  of  considerable  power,  and  a  son  of  France  by  reason 
of  his  heart  and  his  wit. 

" Saunders's  News- Letter,"  Dublin,  September  6th,  1877. 

A  vigorous,  healthy  tone,  not  much  in  vogue  in  these  days 
of  the  "fleshly  school."  .  .  .  Original  and  never  obscure. 
...  No  mean  contribution  to  the  poetic  literature  of  the 
day. 

"The  Berlin  Gegenwort"  Berlin,  November  14th,  1877. 

In  one  hand  he  holds  a  mastery  of  light  causerie,  in  the 
other  noble  pictures  with  a  charm  of  language  so  sweet 
that  all  seems  wrapped  in  some  soft  Oriental  robe.  .  . 
Possesses  the  cruel  reality,  the  enchanting  ideal,  in  the  high- 
est degree.  A  fearless  individuality,  a  freedom,  a  capricious 
originality  which,  compared  with  ordinary  English  poetry, 
is  as  the  fleet  free  flight  of  an  Arab  barb  in  the  wide  desert 
to  the  monotonous  amble  of  a  park  hack. 

"The  Boston  Globe,"  Boston,  October  18th,  1877. 

There  is  something  more  in  these  verses  than  a  mere  repro- 
duction of  the  obvious  aspects  of  the  world  within  and  with 
out  us ;  there  is  insight  into  their  underlying  significance. 

"The  Art  Journal,"  London,  March  3d,  1877. 

The  very  highest  order  of  power  as  well  as  grace.  He  has 
established  his  claim  to  prominent  rank  as  one  of  the  poets 
of  the  period. 

"Home  Journal,"  Boston,  March  22d,  1884. 
A  European  reputation  as  painter  and  poet. 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  1879. 

Has  created  more  envy  than  a  First  Groom  of  the  Bed- 
chamber. 

"  Home  Journal,"  New  York,  December  21st,  1881. 

A  remarkable  man  in  many  ways,  with  a  head  resembling 
the  pictures  of  Lord  Byron,  and  a  manner  almost  child-like  in 
its  naif,  frank  simplicity  and  boyishness.  .  .  .  His  beau- 
tiful paintings  are  greatly  admired. 

"Het  Nieuws  Van  Den  Dag"  Amsterdam,  Sept.  26th,  1883. 
Bekenden  tegenstander.     ^Esthetisch  streven. 


THESS  OPINIONS. 

"National  Tribune"  Washington,  April  3d,  1884. 

The  poems  became  the  rage  at  once.  A  veritable  Admi- 
rable Crichton.  ...  A  fine  artist,  and  writing  in  five 
languages.  Strongly  tinged  with  the  realism  of  literature 
founded  by  Balzac  and  disgraced  by  Zola  ;  but  he  never  ap- 
proaches even  the  uncleanness  of  the  latter. 

"Buffalo  Courier, "  March  18th,  1884. 

A  man  of  broad  culture,  a  thorough  linguist  ;  one  of 
nature's  born  poets. 

"Manchester  Courier,"  Manchester,  April  llth,  1883. 
An  advocate  of  the  dare-devil  chivalry  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

"Milwaukee  Sentinel,"  (Ella  Wheeler),  May  18th,  1884. 
A  knight  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;   a  true  poet. 
"High  Life,"  Paris,  1880. 

Grand  seigneur,  homme  de  lettres,  artiste  amateur,  sem- 
blable  a  ces  nobles  de  la  Renaissance  italienne,  dont  le  blason 
etait  dessine  par  les  Muses.  Leur  genie  rayonne  comme  leur 
personne.  Ses  vers  sont  fils  de  son  cceur  ;  ce  sont  les  pages, 
emues  ou  gaies,  de  son  carnet  de  voyages  .  .  .  Bizarre  et  ex- 
centrique.  .  .  Ses  lauriers  font  un'bel  effet  sur  son  blason. 

"Tlie  Boulevard,"  Paris,  July  10th,  1880. 

We  are  irresistibly  carried  away  far  over  the  mountains 
into  some  half-known  land,  wildly  beautiful  and  untrodden 
by  the  foot  of  man,  whereof  his  poems  sing  the  strange  and 
grand  music.  Has  the  power  to  illustrate  his  books  in 
black  and  white,  besides  being  one  of  the  strongest  colourists 
in  water-colour  we  have  seen  of  late.  A  finished  elocution- 
ist, though  generally  modest  enough  to  recite  any  one  else's 
verses  rather  than  his  own. 

"Indianapolis  Journal,"  March,  1882. 

Grand  poetry  indeed.  Stands  in  the  first  rank  of  artists 
.  .  .  Drawings  far  better  worthy  of  study  than  the  water- 
colours  at  the  Academy  of  New  York  .  .  .  Often  paints  on 
an  ordinary  paper  pistol-target  of  his  own,  riddled  in  the 
centre  by  bullets. 

"The  Gazzetta  d' Italia,"  Naples,  August  llth,  1879. 

The  enthusiasm  which  immediately  burst  forth  on  his 
work  was  simply  nothing  beyond  his  great  merits. 

"Ill'd  Sporting  &  Dramatic  News"  London,  Aug.  2d,  1879. 
Heartfelt  earnestness. 


1-24  PEESS   OPINIONS. 

"Lowell  Morninr/  J/^7/'  November  14th ,  1881. 

"Writes  in  French,  English  and  Italian  with  ease.  Con- 
tributed to  the  Whitehall  7<Y/vV  //•  and  periodicals  of  note,  and 
French  journals.  Can  illustrate  his  works  and  recite  his 
verse  in  a  thoroughly  artistic  manner. 

"The  Enquirer,"  Philadelphia,  December  13th,  1881. 

He  will  divide  popularity  now  with  Tennyson Has 

oftener  the  hearty,  manly  ring  of  Longfellow.  Has  the 
power  to  recite  his  verse  and  illustrate  his  books  with  his 
own  pencil — no  mean  one. 

"Home  Jo umal,"  November  9th,  1881. 

The  beau  ideal  of  an  artist,  nor  does  this  belie  him  in 
his  pen-and-ink  sketches.  Not  content  with  the  laurels  of 
Art  and  Poesy,  he  plucks  a  leaf  from  the  brow  of  the  sister 
muse. 

!L' Artiste,"  of  Arsene  Houssaye,  Paris,  February,  1881. 

A  je  ne  ,W.x  i^nd  of  freshness  and  spontaneity,  a  man 
full  of  feeling,  bright,  frank,  and  free.  In  some  pages, 
though,  the  port's  sidness  bursts  forth  in  touching  accents 
that  have  a  fullness  of  beauty — a  richness  of  metaphor  that 
is  simply  magnificent  ...  A  strain  of  imposing  and  austere 
beauty. " 

"  Bo*t<m  B,<i<:on"  March  29th,  1884. 

A  man  of  culture  and  a  thorough  linguist. 

" Gcdignwn? *  Messenger  "  Paris,  November  3th  and  6th,  1883. 

Is  what  Germans  call  <vV-fo//Y/V/.  a  many-sided  man  .  .  . 
Capital  verses  with  as  much  poetry  as  line  specimens  of 
manly  English. 

"Le  Triboukt,"  Paris,  April  21st,  1881. 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  poets,  and  painter  of  wat 
talent. 

"Le  Soir,"  Paris,  June,  1883. 

The  chief  of  a  new  aesthetic  school.  The  author  of 
"  Entre-Nous  "  is  still  a  furore. 


Too  much  above  people's  heads  to  have  a  great  success  .  .  . 
An  entire  want  of  .floor  to  all  he  writes  and  paints  .  .  .  The 
vulgar  will  probably  hate  him. 


"The  Brighton  MrHfJurrl,"  Brighton,  Dec.  4th,  18:9. 

All  breathe  deep  feeling,  and  are  conceived  under  great 
and  sad  emotion  such  as  stolid  Saxons  very  rarely  possess. 


PRESS  OPINIONS.  125 

"Le  Globe" Paris,  October  12th,  1880. 
A  renowned  Anglo-French  poet. 

"The  Daily  Chronicle." 

Has  made  verse  a  method  of  giving  to  the  world  the 
fantastic  but  ennobling  memories  of  days  spent  in  travel  so 
wild  that  it  borders  on  the  work  of  the  explorer,  and  in 
keen  observation  of  life  in  its  most  pathetic  and  graceful 
aspects  ....  The  media? val  romance  of  "  Aelia  "  has  a 
courage  and  unconventional  freshness  that  show  forth  genius, 
that  makes  the  light  of  the  poetic  sacred  fire  shine  upon  the 
faces  of  the  readers.  ...  A  rich  broidery  of  modern  aesthe- 
ticism  in  its  highest  sense.  ...  He  promises  to  give  us  an 
English  form  of  the  odes  and  poems  of  the  classic  poets  in 
the  Sapphic  metre.  .  .  .  With  him  the  race  of  true  poets 
will  not  die  out  .  .  .  His  other  varied  talents  have  often 
had  the  usual  faculty  of  raising  in  vulgar  minds  an  utter 
chaos  of  envy  and  calumny,  both  of  which  have  been  used 
to  their  utmost  against  him. 

"World,"  New  York,  March  16th,  1884. 

A  man  of  broad  culture,  a  thorough  linguist,  and  one  of 
nature's  born  poets. 

"Detroit  Post  and  Tribune"  May  18th,  1884. 

Arsene  Houssaye  calls  him  a  luminaire  (a  seeker  after 
light)  in  his  paintings  .  .  .  Leans  to  the  Salvator  Rosa 
si  vie,  but  toned  by  conscientious  study  of  the  Italian  mas- 
ters .  .  .  Poetry  iii  his  painting,  and  painting  in  his  poetry. 

"L'lUir&ti'iitfttH,"  Paris,  November,  1883. 

Un  des  ecrivains  les  plus  distingues.  .  .  .  Rev£lant  un 
sentiment  profond  de  laegthetique  .  .  .  Une  organization 
d'elite. 

"La  Pair,"  Paris,  1880. 

Translation. 

Fresh  as  an  April  morning  with  the  tender  richness  of 
the  spring.  The  thoughts  in  their  soaring  height,  have 
the  broad,  strong  wings  of  the  eagle,  held  bravely  upward 
and  at  ease  ;  a  ring  of  such  a  heart-rending  sorrow  here 
and  there,  that  we  know  this  poet  has  suffered,  and  out  of 
his  sorrow  has  come  his  song,  with  a  sad  sad  note  that  must 
break  forth  despite  all  effort  to  keep  it  back.  Imbued  with 
n  longing  to  heal  all  human  woe,  when  he  sings  of  it  his 
heart  "thrills  with  a  charity,  a  majesty,  that  is  the  true 
poet's  cry  of  sisterhood  to  sorrow.  .  .  .  Knowledge  of  re- 
fined life,  and  the  absolute  aristocratic  instinct  in  "  Chez 
1'Ambassadeur." 

"World"  August  16th,  1884. 
i     Possesses  talent  uncommon  to  rank.  .  .  . 


126  PEJ2SS  OPINIONS. 


is,"  Paris,  November  19th,  1883. 

Un  Antinoiis  Hercule  :  tire  Tepee  et  le  pistolet  comrne  Saint- 
Georges,  monte  a"  cheval  comme  Fordharn,  cuisine  comme 
Brillat-Savarin,  parle  presque  autant  de  langues  que  le  comte 
d'Irisson,  et  rime  comme  Musset.  Sa  devise  est :  Fatten  ! — 
courte  et  fiere. 

Voici 

Le  personnage  en  raccourci. 

.  .  .  Vers  pleins  d'emotion  et  de  tendresse,  ou  le  francais 
et  Tanglais  se  partagent  parf  ois  la  rime.  Fait  songer  &  Victor 
Hugo  et  Ruckert  ;  c'est  un  Byron  franyais  ou'un  Musset 
anglais  ;  comme  eux,^  il  a  chante  la  f emme  et  1'amour.  II 
a  horreur  des  boudiues  modernes,  qui  sont  la  negation  de 
1'elegance  et  de  la  force.  Aussi  hardi  voyageur  que  M.  de 
Brazza. 

"Home  Journal,"  Boston,  March  22d,  1884. 
...  A  European  reputation  as  a  poet  and  painter. 

"  Galignani,"  Paris,  November  14th,  1883. 
.  .  .  The  bon  vivant  of  taste  and  talent. 

"  Boston  Saturday  Gazette,"  May  17th,  1884. 
Admired  and  enjoyed.     Does  all  with  grace,  and  drama- 
tically. .  .  . 

"Northern  Times"  England,  1882. 

Not  of  the  fleshly  school,  unless  inasmuch  as  flesh  means 
hard  fibres  and  stern  passion.  Imagery  often  above  the 
heads  of  untravelled  men.  .  .  .  When  Nimrod  is  a  born 
poet  he  brings  back  from  prairie  and  jungle  the  beauties 
of  a  fresh,  unhackneyed  mind.  The  works  of  the  Anglo- 
French  Nobleman  are  magnificent  in  this.  A  strange  mix- 
ture of  genius  carelessness  and  erudition.  Some  very  re- 
markable transcripts  of  the  Sapphic  metre,  and  some  Greek 
iambics,  also  charming  original  poems  in  French  and  Italian. 
His  general  construction  of  phrase,  however,  is  French. 

"  Saturday  Times"  Boston,  April  5th,  1884. 
.  .  .  An  elocutionist  of  no  mean  parts. 

"  Le  Soir,"  Paris,  July  13th,  1883 
.  .  .  Le  poete  aBsthetique. 

"Daily  Chronicle"  December  27th,  1882. 
.  .  .  An  aesthetic  nobleman.  .  .  . 

"  Chicago  Tribune,"  February  18th,  1883/ 
.  .  .  Even  calumny  has  not  embittered  him. 


PEESS  OPINIONS.  127 

"L' Italic,"  Rome. 
.  .  .  Un  artiste  grand  seigneur. 

"Boston  Courier,"  March  23d,  1884. 

.  .  .  Has  distinguished  himself  both  as  poet  and  painter 

"The  Roma,"  Naples,  October  3d,  1879. 

.  .  .  There  is  also  all  the  fire  of  Byron's  Don  Juan  in  this 
fresh  bright  poet. 

"  Times,"  Chicago,  May,  1884. 

.  .  .  An  artist,  a  poet,  a  musician,  and  a  fine  painter. 
"Roman  Times,"  Rome,  July  18th,  1883. 

.  .  .  He  feels  intensely,  and  feels  like  a  grand,  poetical 
knight  of  old.  .  .  . 

"Express,"  Buffalo,  March  18th,  1884. 
.  .  .  All  that  a  maiden's  fancy  ever  dreamed. 

"  Le  Voltaire,"  Paris,  November  6th,  1882. 
Un  des  plus  extraordinaires  champions  que  Ton  connaisse. 
"  Saturday  Times,"  Boston,  March  22d,  1884. 

A  broad  scholar,  very  superior  linguist.  Poems  enjoyed 
the  popularity  of  eight  editions.  .  .  .  Highly  praised  on  this 
side  also.  % 

"Albany  Evening  Journal,"  July  10th,  1884. 

Rare  mental  endowments :  manly,  frank  and  intellectual. 
"  Globe,"  Boston,  May  19th,  1884. 

.  .  .  "With  his  deft  brush  he  can  paint  the  most  charming 
water-colours,  or  with  his  facile  pen  write  the  most  fascinating 
of  verses.  An  extraordinary  linguist,  an  adept  in  all  the 
manly  sports.  Has  received  the  highest  encomiums  from 
the  press  of  this  country. 

"  Le  Papillon"  Paris,  May  6th,  1883. 

^  Possedant  lejsentiment  du  beau  a  dose  enprme  d'un  colo- 
riste  et  d'un  poete  enamoure  comme  Musset,  vivant  comme  lui 
la  poesie  et  des  rgves  chivalresques.  Quelques  uns  1'ont  mal 
compris,  mais  il  est  simplement  un  homme  d'infiniment  d'es- 
prit,  ayant  pour  ideal  tout  ce  qui  est  beau,  noble,  et  bon 
dans  son  imagination  puissante. 

"  Le  Soir"  Paris,  November  5th,  1883. 
.  .  .  poesies  des  plus  attrayantes.  .  .  . 

"La  Liberte,"  Paris,  November  14th,  1883. 
Polyglotte  et  voyageur  intrepide  :  a  fonde  une  ecole  esthe- 
tique.  .  .  . 


128  PRESS   OPINIONS. 

"Post,"  Boston,  March  21st,  1884. 
A  European  reputation  as  a  poet  and  a  painter. 

"  Weekly  Argus,"  May  3d,  1884. 
...  A  famed  writer  and  painter.  .  .  . 
Henri  Ketten,  1879. 

.  .  .  Plus  harmonieuses  et  plus  adapt ees  d'etre  mises  en 
musique  que  toutes  autres  poesies  que  je  connais.  Elles  por- 
tent chaqune  une  riclie  et  douce  melodic  toute  faite  entre 
leurs  ailles.  Mais  le  poete  lui  meme  a  du  avoir  souvent 
senti  les  larmes  aux  yeux.  Juste  1'ame  d'elite  comme  disait 
Litzt  que  les  vulgaires  tachent  &  detruire  par  la  calomnie  Der- 
sonelle. 

"  Oil  Bias,"  Paris,  Nov.  3d,  1883. 

Une  personalite  Parisienne,  mais  connaissant  &  fond 
L'ltalien,  Espagnol,  Allemand,  Anglais,  Fran£ais,  Grec,  et 
le  Latin.  .  .  .  Charmant  et  original.  Des  vers  pleins  d'emo 
tion  et  de  tendresse.  .  .  . 

"  Detroit  Free  Press,"  May,  1884. 

An  elocutionist.  .  .  .  His  special  gift  is  poetry  ;  foreign 
critics  have  pronounced  it  worthy  of  the  highest  genius. 

3/.  Molinari,  of  the  Journal  des  Debats,  Paris,  1877. 
.  .  .  Poesie  bien  charmante. 

"  Le  lieveil,"  Paris,  November  21st,  1884. 

.  .  .  Une  personalite  comme  il  en  existe  peu  ;  comme  il 
n'en  existe  pas. 

"  Transcript,"  Boston,  March  20th,  1884. 

Rare  attainments  and  rare  literary  ability.  The  only  dan- 
ger will  be  his  giving  too  free  a  rein  to  his  political  fancy. 

"Morning  Post,"  London,  August  7th,  1877. 

.  .  .  Each  poem  has  a  soul  and  body.  He  writes  as 
though  a  thought  had,  as  it  were,  become  entangled  in  a 
mesh  of  sweet  strong  words, — words  that  have  long  been  in 
love  with  each  other  but  have  only  now  got  wedded. 

"Lutheran  Observer"  Philadelphia,  April  4th,  1884. 

Broad  culture,  rare  literary  ability,  and  considerable  repu- 
tation as  a  poet  and  painter.  .  .  . 

&c.  &c.  tfcc.  &c. 


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